Count To Ten
by Twist
Summary: COMPLETE. Grace Speaker/Havelock Vetinari. Ten years, eleven short fanfictions, one relationship. It's probably impossible to secretly date the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, but Vetinari and Grace figure they might as well give it a go anyhow.
1. The Sex is Good

Count To Ten

Or: I Want A Girl With A Short Skirt and A Long Jacket

By: Twist

A Preliminary Public Service Announcement from your Author:

Hello gentle readers! Here is a fic that is a little bit of a labor of love (ahaha a pun) that I have been poking away at for the better part of the past few months. As a whole, it's long. If you're reading this and it's all been posted and you plan to go straight through, bring snacks; the journey may be arduous and require vittles for sustenance. You'll need your strength to **review at the end of each chapter**. (Subtlety: not my strong suit.)

Anyway, it's _a lot_ of Grace/Vetinari. In fact, all of it is Grace/Vetinari. Each drabble represents one year in their weirdly adorable courtship/relationship, which was previously established in everything else I've written recently. As this whole fic is patterned off the song meme (see: It's Like A Musical Mosaic), each "year" has a song that goes along with it. They're mostly all at least a little dramatic, and I tried to follow a general logical progression, but there are a few that could really go anywhere, so I sort of threw them in where I needed them. A new chapter will be posted each day, from now until the day after February 14th 2011, at which point the last chapter will be posted.

The whole fic itself is subtitled after a song by the artist 'Cake,' which is both gorgeous and glorious and kind of perfectly suits this pair, imho. You don't have to agree with me, but if you don't tough shit, it's my fanfiction so nyer nyer nyer.

My thanks to Gogol, who didn't so much beta it as drool all over it at various points throughout the writing process. I tried to clean it off, guys, but I'd wear gloves if I were you. We have nitrile ones for those who are allergic to latex up here at the podium.

So without further ado, I give you: Count To Ten.

-()-

**1) Saving Abel – The Sex is Good**

Grace gasped when her naked back pressed against the cool wallpaper, turning her head to the side, baring her neck. Part of her brain – the part that stayed detached, pragmatic, no matter what – was asking whether or not this was really happening. The human part, the bit responsible for daily life, was gasping right along with her, back arching, arm wrapping around a skinny pair of shoulders to keep her on her feet. A third part, quiet and responsible solely for self-defense, whispered that this was the last step off a high ledge, and there would be no chance of return. At least, not alive and as Grace Speaker.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, punctuated with kissing her, on the mouth, on the neck, one hand supporting her head, the other arm twined around her back, hand cupping her ass. Grace paused, not so much for her own benefit but to see if he would too.

For one second, Grace Speaker, sole proprietor, manager and employee of Pellicool Pets, made the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork wait achingly long for an answer.

She leaned in, still clinging to his shoulders like they were the last stable thing in a World Gone Madde – and the world would have had to have gone pretty damned mad for Havelock Vetinari to be a point of stability – and kissed him again, messy, not particularly caring. "As long as I'm not just another notch in the Patrician's bedpost."

He threw out an arm and caught himself against the wall when she slid a hand down the front of his trousers, still holding her so she didn't fall. What a gentleman. "I don't exactly get around," he chuckled.

She leaned in, cheek-to-cheek and kissed him softly. "So you're desperate, then?"

"You talk too damn much," he whispered, hoarse now, moaning a little afterward, still holding her despite everything. She leaned back and kissed him again, biting his lip just a little – softly – before pulling back, hand still down the front of the most powerful man in the world's pants.

"Hypocrite."


	2. Shoot To Thrill

And here we have our second snippet, which is one of the ones that didn't have a definite time frame other than "early on" so there it is. I'm posting it early in the morning because today is February 6, which is the date of Super Bowl XLV! Let's do it Steelerssssss. Green Bay ain't got nothing! Anyway, yeah, I'm not going to be able to post for the rest of the day due to work meetings and then Super Bowling so here is an early-morning installment. Enjoy, and review, my darlings.

-()-

**2) AC/DC – Shoot to Thrill**

"So what do you _do_ with your free time?"

"You." The sound of a playful slap punctured the muffled silence of the room. "Ow."

"Smartass." A rustle of bedclothes. "No, really, there has to be something." Grace Speaker propped herself up on her elbow, pulling the cover up to shield herself against the chill of her bedroom, not quite adequately heated by the small wood stove. "I've known you for a couple years now and as far as I know, you don't do anything besides work. There has to be _something_."

He shrugged, eyes closed. "That's about it, really."

"You don't drink or gamble or go to the track or _anything_?"

"I, uh, I _can't_, really." He cracked an eye. "Vices are frowned upon. Well, not so much frowned upon as exploited and used against me to bring about my death and/or deposition."

She scowled. "I really, honestly, have a very difficult time believing that. There's literally nothing else?"

He gave her a sidelong look. "Well . . ."

"Aha! I knew there was a 'well' in there somewhere."

He sat up, and watched her for a minute before he sighed. "Get dressed, I'll show you." He raised an eyebrow. "Wear something warm."

An hour later, Grace found herself standing in a dingy wood shed five miles out of the city, coat clutched tightly around herself. Vetinari pulled a sheet off of a large, shapeless hunk of something, metallic and black. Chrome glinted. She raised her eyebrows. "Okay, so I really hope you're planning on explaining what this is, because I have never seen one of these before in my life."

"It's a genuine da Quirm, is what it is," he sighed, looking fondly at the thing. "He calls it the da Quirm Muira." He looked to her. "So get in."

She raised an eyebrow. "So _what_ now?"

"Get in it." He opened one of the doors and gestured. "Go on, it doesn't bite."

"Forgive me, but knowing it's a da Quirm, I have my doubts about that statement." She slid into the leather seat, a modified carriage seat by the looks of it, and he strolled around the thing, getting in the other side, which was fitted with a large wheel, similar to what might be found on a ship but without the spokes. Flappy-looking little paddles sprouted off of it, instead. Ahead of them, the open shed door and the dirt racing track looped and twisted across the geography of this patch of the Plains, glowed in the early afternoon sunlight. "So now what?"

He slid a bolt into a hole on the shelf that the wheel seemed to originate from, and patted the thing fondly before pressing a little black button. Grace screamed and jumped when something under the sheet metal on the front of the thing roared to life. "It's got an engine under there!" She turned to him. "There's a whole _engine_ under there, is there?"

"Yes. _Internal_ combustion, very difficult, but after some concentrated effort Leonard was able to manage it."

"So this is some kind of machine?" She took in the elegant curves of the interior and the soft slope of the front of the machine, midnight black. "What's it do? Why're we sitting in it?"

"It's going to replace the coach, someday," he said, with a fair amount of certainty. "There's some issues Leonard works on sporadically, of course, and until then it'd be . . . imprudent to release it to the general public."

"So it's a secret?" She ran a hand warily over the black leather of the interior shelf. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not as such, and no. Well, unless I crash it, which I haven't done in a while." The engine revved and Grace looked to him, eyes wide. "It's just being kept a little bit . . . _hidden_ until the whole issue of fuel is sorted out." He shrugged. "Right now it runs off peanut oil, but that's impractical – peanut shortages could lead to a bit of a crisis, you know how it is. He's nearly there with a model that runs off waste gases in the atmosphere, I'm told, but I'm sure I don't understand how _that's_ going to work."

She waved a hand. "Just for a moment, back to the crashing: how long is a while?"

"Oh, it's got inflatable air bags that go off if you hit something or roll, so you might not die," he said, more cheerfully than he had any rights to be. "Probably won't die! Am I the kind of person that would go about in a deadly machine moving at a hundred miles an hour?"

"Maybe, I don't know!" She blinked. "Is that how fast it is?"

"It's a bit faster."

"What's a bit?"

"It'll be much more enjoyable if you don't scream, by the way." He smirked and the engine roared again. "Ready?"

"No!"

Vetinari flicked one of the little paddles on the wheel and the machine, with a roar that felt like a punch to the gut, rolled forward, already going altogether too fast for Grace. It was deeply unsettling, she realized, pressing back into the seat, how it just _moved_, without anything pushing or pulling it. It wasn't right. "So how fast are we going now? Look where you're going!" she added, trying very hard indeed not to border on the hysterical when he glanced down at a bank of gauges behind the wheel.

"I can't check the speed if I don't look down."

"Bit of a design flaw, isn't it?" Grace laughed, nervous. "So, how fast are we going? Please look quickly."

"Twenty-five miles per hour."

"But – But you can't even feel it!" She looked out the front window, hands clamped firmly to the seat. "We can't be!" She glanced to him. "What do those paddles do, is that how you go faster?"

He shrugged. "In a manner of speaking. The engine runs on different gears for different speeds, and I can change the gears with those. The accelerator is on a pedal under the wheel."

"Why's there a shelf in it?"

"To hold things, I think was Leonard's reasoning. And to separate the engine from the actual bit you sit in."

"Ah." She sank further into the seat. "How nice."

"Want to go faster?"

"Are you just asking that out of politeness?"

". . . Yes."

She sighed. "I suppose I did ask you what you got up to for fun." She clenched her jaw, resigned to her fate. "So go on, then." He flicked the paddle again and Grace tried very, very hard not to yelp as the thing roared forward across the dirt. "So what do you call this thing?"

"Well, other than the Muira, Leonard's official name for it is the Self-Propelled-Horseless-Coach. I just prefer to call it a coach."

"Surely you must see the flaw in that naming scheme? Could lead to a bit of confusion, eh?"

"I'm the test driver, not the publicist." They slid around a corner, back end of the thing drifting wider than the front end. Grace whimpered.

"Dare I ask how fast it's going now?"

"Only fifty miles per hour, but we've got a flat straightaway coming up." Another flick of the paddles and an abrupt slowing. A minute later, the thing was airborne for a second, before landing heavily and roaring forward.

"Has anyone ever told you you're probably insane?" She watched as he laughed a little, the machine seeming to spin on one front tire, coming to face almost 180 degrees the other way before roaring forward again. "Scratch probably."

"It's alright, I'd always suspected." He flicked the paddles once, twice, and the thing surged forward. The track stretched ahead of them, dirt sprayed behind them.

"So how fast now?"

"Ninety."

"_Ninety_?"

"Well, a hundred now."

Grace watched the Plains whip by and the track disappear ahead of them, a fluttery little feeling in the pit of her stomach. A hundred miles in an hour. Good thing there was only one of these – the world would become too small for comfort at that rate. You could get to Genua almost in a week, practically.

As the machine decelerated, she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Whoa." They slid around a corner and weaved through a zig-zag in the track before slowing down and rumbling to a tame speed. "Whoa."

"You like it?" He looked over to her as they came to a stop, in the middle of the track.

"I . . . I didn't dislike it." She lifted her hands up and noted the tremble. "It was a rush, that's for sure." She looked over, mouth quirking into a smile. "No wonder it's your hobby."

"What makes you say that?" She slid across the seat and propped her elbow on his shoulder, running a hand through his hair. "I like where this is going, I have to say."

She kissed him once and fussed with the front of his coat. "Job like yours? The track or cards wouldn't cut it, not to get your adrenalin up. You just drove a machine a hundred miles per hour and you're hardly even fazed."

He waited for her to finish kissing him before mumbling, "It is one of those negative things that comes down to the job, I guess."

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"I can think of something else that will get you wound up." She lay back in the seat and smiled. "And I bet you haven't done this sort of testing in this machine yet."

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I have not." He bent over her and they kissed again. "But if you ever meet Leonard please, please do not tell him about it."

-()-

I'd like to thank and dedicated this chapter to Jeremy Clarkson, James May and Richard Hammond. Jeremy wouldn't like the flappy paddles, and James would probably have gotten lost on the way to the track, but Hammond would probably approve, and really, he's the only one I care about. Oh, and the Stig. But only because he scares me.


	3. Can't You Hear Me Knocking

Another day, another 6pm that I will be missing, so another morning update. In fact, I may just sort of switch the update time because in general it works better for me. This was the last short I wrote before I considered the story finished, so the tone may feel a little different, hopefully not in a bad way. Enjoy, review, etc. etc.

Also, please take a moment of silence for the Steelers. It was a sad night, last night. Goddamn Packers, the cheese always stands alone.

-()-

**3) Santana Ft. Scott Weiland – Can't You Hear Me Knocking**

"Are you busy Friday?" he asked her one rainy afternoon. She looked to him, sitting at the counter, flipping through a dusty old history book she kept around. He caught her puzzled expression and raised an eyebrow.

"No."

"Good." She watched him flip through the crackling old pages and pause, presumably to read.

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you want to know if I'm busy on Friday?" She turned away and resumed watering the rabbits. "I honestly hadn't planned that far ahead."

"It occurred to me the other day that I have never officially bought you dinner."

"Yes you have. Lots of times." She shot him a look over her shoulder. He hadn't moved. "Weren't those official?"

"I mean, never in an actual restaurant. I assume take-out only counts for a bit."

She'd stopped filling the water bowls and took a breath, being sure to keep her voice even and calm. "Bit risky for you, isn't it?" she asked, lightly.

"It doesn't have to be." He pulled a pencil out of her mug of office supplies and scribbled something in the book. "I have a few disguises at my disposal." He chewed on the eraser for a second. "How about seven?"

"Sounds . . . fine." She took a breath and finished with the rabbits before she moved on to the guinea pigs. "Seven is perfect. I'll have Erica mind the shop for me for the last couple hours."

"Perfect, I knew that girl would come in handy for something. Where do you want to go?"

"I think you're supposed to pick, traditionally." She turned and caught his expectant expression. "Oh, fine. There's this nice Agatean place called Sakana. I'll meet you there, shall I?"

The remainder of the week was . . . distracting, as far as Grace was concerned. Or perhaps it was mundane, and it was Friday that was distracting. Which was silly, she reflected, Friday night, when she found herself going through her wardrobe for something suitable to wear. After all, she and Havelock were on first-name terms, they'd known each other for almost five years now, and they'd been . . . knowing each other in the far more innuendo-laden sense for nearly four. He knew her, she knew him. It wasn't as though this was a blind date.

So why did she feel like it was? Possibly, she thought to herself, because this was the first time they'd actually gone out together, even if he would have to come up with some kind of disguise to manage it. And when you went out you had to talk, really _talk_. There were no distractions or things to do to break up awkward pauses. Not that there were any, anymore, but if there _were_, there wouldn't be anything to draw attention away from it.

For the first time, Grace realized that actually _talking_ to Havelock Vetinari – not just doing a crossword, or rambling about whatever occurred to either one of them, or even having sex – was a far more terrifying prospect than it seemed on the surface. She stared into the depths of her clothing and muttered, "Well, bugger it all, then."

She wasn't surprised when he showed up five minutes late, and therefore wasn't offended. When you're secretly seeing the tyrant of the city, you have to allow for a little tardiness. She smiled and raised an eyebrow, sipping her martini. "I ordered a drink, I do hope you don't mind." He slipped into the chair and looked around. "I like your glasses more every time I see them, you know." She caught his expression. "Would you relax? I even got an alcove thing." She gestured around. "All nice and concealed."

"Good idea. How'd you manage it?" he asked. "It's packed out there; did you just get lucky?"

"I told them you have an embarrassing medical condition that requires utmost privacy." He scowled. "It was that or wealthy vampire Assassin, and I figured the further we were from the truth in that respect, the better."

"Which medical condition am I afflicted with?" He was still scowling a little, but she could hear the trace amusement in his voice. "Just so I know when I have to start faking symptoms."

"I didn't specify." She giggled as the waitress appeared, cautiously, as though expecting some sort of horrible deformity.

"Tequila, triple sec and lime on the rocks," he said, gently, before the waitress fled. "You definitely specified a condition," he hissed, smirking.

"I maybe – _maybe_ – mentioned oozing rashes and unpredictable and violent seizures."

He put his face in his hands. "Oh gods. Well at least it'll be peaceful."

"And no one will suspect it's you." She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink. "I'm a genius, you can reward me for it later. Nice drink order, by the way; clearly you can take the boy out of Genua but you can't take Genua out of the boy."

"I like it," he defended. "It's good."

"Tequila makes me violent," she muttered, setting her glass down. "Violently ill, that is."

"It's not for everyone." He looked over the menu while she looked over his disguise. He noticed. "What?"

"You have grey hair."

"Yes."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"Nope." He smirked. "It's all part of the mystery. I'm an enigma."

"You're something, that's for sure." The waitress returned, with the drink and salads, in delicate little bowls. Grace watched him pick at it. "You should eat that, it's good for you."

"It's green. The orange stuff isn't bad, though."

"That's the dressing and it has positively no nutritional value whatsoever. The _lettuce_, on the other hand –"

"Is green."

"Limes are green. Avocados are green. Apples can be green." She raised her eyebrows and took a bite of salad. "You love those. There's a crucial flaw in your logic, somewhere."

"Well they all taste like something." He frowned and grudgingly ate some of the lettuce. "Lettuce doesn't taste like anything. Tastes like crunchy water, which is just weird."

"You're a very strange man, has anyone ever told you that?" She laughed when he raised an eyebrow and gave her a polite look. "Silly question, I suppose. You have any idea what you want to eat?"

"Anything's fine, really." He shrugged. "You pick, it all sounds interesting. Well, I mean, aside from the avocado roll. That sounds delicious."

"It's rolled in seaweed."

"Yeah, so? Seaweed's fine." He caught her expression. "What's that about?"

"That's two green things in one foodstuff."

"Well avocados don't count, because they're delicious, and seaweed's not green, it's more brownish." He paused. "Brownish. Green. Breen."

"That's a real color, you know." She penciled in the orders on the flimsy printed options sheet and set them on the side of the table for the waitress to take.

"I do know. We should use that for the crossword next week. It's such a nice word, breen." He took a sip of his drink and rolled the word around once more while Grace laughed. "Breen. I quite like it, really. Breen foods are on the okay list."

The dinner went on, and no distressingly awkward pauses occurred. Names for colors were invented, or remembered, and Grace discovered that Vetinari would eat basically anything you put in front of him as long as it wasn't green and didn't come from a mammal or bird. "So who's the strangest person you've ever met?" she asked, laughing, stirring the remains of her soy sauce idly.

He thought. "Well . . . Ah, there's been a few." He tapped the rim of his glass. "Well, there's this Doctor, I still seem him sometimes, when he drops in. He's probably the oddest person . . . He's got this blue box and it's . . ." he paused, looked at her, and smiled. "It's very unusual, suffice to say."

"What about Lady Margolotta?"

"She's . . ." He shrugged, helplessly. "She's who she is." He laughed a little. "And a little strange. But never mind her, you'll meet her one day I'm sure, and you'll find out for yourself." He took a sip of tequila, having long since decided to forgo the extra ingredients. "She'll figure us out sooner or later, despite my best efforts."

"Well, I'll have to keep a stake around just in case."

"I should hope it's not necessary," he said, and she didn't notice the very gentle note of warning.

She smiled, content, and sighed. "Why did you decide to do this? It's been lovely, but it's a bit out of the ordinary for you, isn't it?"

He sat back and swirled the remains of his tequila and ice cubes. "Would you believe me if I told you it's because my godsons assured me that this is what normal people do when they're dating?"

"Your godsons are eight and ten." She laughed softly. "And disturbingly enough, I _do_ believe you'd take dating advice from an eight and ten year old. Did you really ask them?"

"I might have."

She leaned onto the table and beckoned him in. "You want to know something?" He leaned in until she could whisper into his ear, "You are without a doubt the strangest, most clever person I've ever known." She kissed him on the cheek, enjoying the little rush of being able to do that in public view, whether or not anyone knew he was the Patrician, or just a bloke with a very unfortunate medical condition. "I like that in a man, I think." She could feel his smile, and she rested her head against his, just for a moment.

-()-

It is a real word; look it up if you doubt me. Best. Word. Ever.


	4. So What

Good morning, people of the DW fandom, hello hello, what do we have here? Another installment, that's what we have! I know you're excited. I'd like to thank those who have read and reviewed so far for their time: madam-du-batty, i am the stig, tree1138 and Virtuella. If there's anything that bothers you that I might be able to polish up on future chapters, don't be afraid to let me know! I can always edit. I hate editing, but I _can_ edit.

-()-

**4) P!nk – So What**

Erica leaned on the counter and cautiously pushed the coffee mug toward her employer. Grace spared the mug a disgusted glance before pushing it away. "I can't imagine what I was thinking in the first place," she snapped. Erica, wisely, remained silent, absently scratching one of the bunnies behind the ears. "Honestly, like anything could work with . . . with that _job_. Ha!" She made a face, rolling her eyes. "With _the city_ in the equation. It was like an affair – it always was." She slammed a fist on the counter, sneering. "Good riddance, I say."

Erica hadn't seen the fight, but apparently it was a little less than forty-eight hours old. She had come into the shop to feed the animals and ended up cleaning up the emotionally radioactive fallout. Grace glared at the coffee cup, sitting on the counter next to a half-finished crossword, and pushed the puzzle to the floor behind the counter before taking a distinctly resentful sip of coffee. "Bastard." Erica just nodded and waited. Soon enough, Grace had slid one hand up over her eyes and sniffed. "He didn't even _care_."

"I'm sure he does, miss."

Grace sniffed again and wiped the first of the tears away. "Like _hell_ he does. This is his damn job, ruining lives. He's a life-ruiner." She pounded her fist onto the counter again before sweeping off the stool and into the back room. Erica heard the door to the attached apartment slam and – very quietly – a choked-back sob. With a sigh, the girl resigned herself to letting this thing run its course, and set about tidying up the shop.

Half a city away, Lord Vetinari sat behind his desk, working on the latest budget report with a ferocity Drumknott hadn't seen from the Patrician in quite some time. He cleared his throat, cautiously, because his Lordship was a complex man, and Drumknott was not entirely convinced he wanted to know the exact reasoning behind his newfound intensity. "Sir?"

"What, Drumknott?" Drumknott blanched. Vetinari rarely called him by his last name when they were alone, unless he was cross or exceedingly distracted. Based on the fact that he'd almost _snarled_ (and here we must remember that almost snarling for Havelock Vetinari is, truthfully, a far sight away from the normal barometer for such a reaction, ranking for less perceptive people than Rufus Drumknott around 'mildly annoyed') in conjunction with the use of his clerk's last name, Drumknott was willing to bet money that his Lordship was both distracted _and_ cross. And since things seemed to be ticking along well enough in the city, and all the day's meetings had finished hours ago, while the sun was still sinking below the horizon and the stars were just starting to peek into the sky, Drumknott figured it could only be one thing.

"Sir, uh, the paperwork is, with, er, the exception of the budget report, all caught up." He held a sheaf of papers aloft. "There are, of course, the non-urgent reports, however they can wait until tomorrow . . . ?" He left the sentence hanging.

"Leave them on my desk," Vetinari said, tone completely neutral. Had he been anyone else, Drumknott would have expected shouting. "You may retire for the evening, Drumknott." _Get out_, screamed the subtext. Drumknott nodded, bowed slightly, and fled. When Vetinari heard him vacate the hall, and the office was totally silent but for the ticking of the clock in the anteroom, he leaned his elbows onto his desk, face in his hands. Conscious that someone might still take it upon themselves to show themselves in, he stood, limped to the door, threw the bolt and leaned back against the heavy wood, head back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, and slid to the floor, elbows on his knees and head cradled in his arms.

He took a deep breath – and had this been absolutely _anyone_ other than Havelock Vetinari, you would have sworn he was struggling not to cry – and let it out slowly, right hand clenching and unclenching rhythmically, cathartic. "You stupid fucker," he mumbled, to himself and the empty office.

-()-

Three more days went by, and Erica heavily contemplated arranging a meeting with Rufus Drumknott, if only because Grace was still acting ridiculous and had started to show signs of becoming an anarchist, often speaking of overthrowing the 'hot but utterly idiotic and bureaucratic dipshit government' to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen, including customers. For everyone's sake, Erica had taken over front-of-house duties, giving Grace time to balance the books and take inventory as well as draw up the weekly crossword for the _Times_(1). This was the reason why, on Thursday night, Erica didn't finish locking the front door in time to run to the back room after the bell tinkled over the back entrance door but before the screaming started.

"I can't believe you, you _godsdamn idiot_!" There was the sound of the apartment door slamming. "I'm calling the watch for breaking and entering, so help me if I don't, and trespassing too, just for godsdamn good measure!" Somewhere in the back, crockery broke. Erica winced.

"I tried to understand you, I _really_ did. The hours, the erratic drop-ins, the fact that practically everything I bloody do these days has to be some big fucking _secret_! But no, not anymore! I'm done." The bell jangled again, as if someone had been pushed up against the door, or had backed into it. Erica tried to look busy with the puppies.

"I even overlooked the damn _vampire_, and you know why? Because I thought it was for the city, part of the job. Ha!" Grace chuckled. "The whole world thinks you're the most maniacal, twisty-minded _git_ we've seen in the past millennium and they don't know the _half_ of it! Part of the job my _ass_. Well you better listen good, bastard, because _I. Am. Finished_. I'm sick of the lying, sick of the secrets, sick to _death_ of waiting for you to tell me the damn truth like your dumb fuck puppet."

"Grace let me just –"

"Just what? Explain everything away? I'm sure you'll do a damn fine job of it too, but I'm not playing this game anymore. You want control of everything around you? Fine. Control what you have with the stupid city, because I refuse to be part of that." The door opened again, bell jingling. "Now get out." Seconds later, the door slammed shut, followed by the apartment door. Erica hung her head and scratched a puppy under the chin.

-()-

It was another seven days before anything else happened. Grace amended the crossword, on Erica's suggestion, despite the fact that 'the whole world ought to know anyway, the bastard', and she would slip into her apartment occasionally, returning with bloodshot eyes and newly-applied mascara. But beyond that, things appeared to return more or less to normal, until Commander Vimes walked in. He nodded to Erica before proceeding to the counter, where Grace was seated.

"I don't know what in the hells is going on," he said without preamble, "but whatever it is the two of you have to work it out."

Grace sniffed. "Nothing's going on, Commander. No-thing."

"My ass it isn't," Vimes snarled, lighting a cigar despite the prominently-displayed 'No Smoking' sign. "Vetinari hasn't slept _at all_ in over a week and his clerk's about ready to shoot him with a tranquilizer dart and _you_ have on fresh mascara."

Grace glared. "You're too damn nosy. There's nothing going on."

"Except that the two of you are totally miserable." He shook his head. "I didn't even know he could _be_ miserable."

"Can we not discuss this in front of Erica?" Grace looked to her clerk. Vimes ignored it, still fixing her with a mild glare. Grace sagged and sighed. "I broke it off – it's not _my_ fault the man lies through his teeth at every opportunity and couldn't manage to tell the truth if his life depended on it." Vimes scowled around the cigar. "It's true! He's got that vampire woman, gods know what the deal is with those two, and I _refuse_ to be the piece on the side – the local flavor. Plus, I never know when he's going to be around and when he isn't, and I can't bloody stand how I'm a big secret."

"Surely you must understand the last two though?" Vimes asked mildly. "It's for your own safety, Grace. And Lady Margolotta isn't . . . Well, I can't presume to know but I would hazard to guess that she's not what you're thinking."

She crossed her legs delicately and sniffed again, sticking her nose into the air. "Be that as it may, it's the principle of the thing."

Vimes sighed. "All I'm saying is at least have a discussion with him. You either need to work it out or get closure, and soon – I am not dealing with an anarchy movement led by a pet store owner, nor do I feel like dealing with the fallout and assassination attempt inquiries when Vetinari inevitably passes out from exhaustion." He gave her a pointed look. "Good day, Miss Speaker."

Grace watched him go before she picked up her pen sucked on the end for a moment. Then, deliberately, she wrote a note on a scrap of crossword draft, folded it up carefully, and held it out to Erica. "Take this to the Palace, if you please. Make sure you deliver it to Drumknott."

-()-

Erica did and, later that night, made sure she was still finishing up her evening chores when the bell over the back door jingled. Not stopping what she was doing, she nevertheless tuned her ears and listened keenly as she could without being obvious.

"You look like the seven hells," Grace said, tone firm. "Have you slept at all?" Silence. "So no, then."

"You have blue mascara on."

"It's Erica's. I . . . ran out."

Awkward silence descended. Finally, Grace sighed. "Gods, Havelock," she groaned, voice muffled, as though she had covered her face with her hands. Then, more clearly, "I'm sorry for going off like that. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were angry," he replied. He even _sounded_ exhausted, Erica marveled. "You had every right to be."

"Not like that, I didn't."

"No, no, I think you did." He sighed. "I'm sorry too, it's just . . . I've never done . . . _this_ before. Never had to manage it. I wasn't being honest, and I wasn't being fair."

"I should have understood better. I know it's mostly for my own protection but it's just . . . it's so _hard_ sometimes. But it's got to be, doesn't it? We can't possibly have a normal run-of-the-mill relationship, not without someone getting killed."

"I can do better though." He sighed again. "I'll have to budget hours, and schedule things more often and . . . I mean, if you _really_ want the entire convoluted Margolotta story I suppose I could volunteer that too."

"I don't need the whole story right now," Grace said quickly. "I just need you to be honest: are the two of you a thing?"

"No."

"Were you ever a thing?"

"Sort of. Not really, though. Age differences and all."

"Are you interested in becoming a thing?"

"No."

"Will you explain your utterly bizarre relationship with her one day?"

"Any time you want me to." Erica heard Grace sigh, and when she spoke again, she could hear the tension had gone out of her boss's voice.

"Then that's all I need, for now. We can talk about the other stuff – the hours, the secrecy, all that junk, later. Right now you need to sleep."

"Mm."

"You can stay here tonight."

"Thanks." Erica smiled and set about finishing cleaning the litter in the rabbit cages. When she went to leave, half an hour later, she noticed the door to the one-room apartment was open, just slightly. She decided to pull it shut to keep out the noise in the morning, when the animals started waking up. As she laid her hand on the knob, she saw a sliver of the bed in the little room, Lord Vetinari curled up in it, Grace comfortably snuggled up against him.

Erica smiled once more and shut the door.

(1) Although since two of the week's clues were 'bloody-minded tyrannical bastard' and 'heartless fucking dictator', Erica wasn't entirely sure this was a good idea.

-()-


	5. King of Anything

And another good morning to you, readers! It's 16F here in the arctic tundra of the eastern seaboard, which is -8.88C or 264.26 Kelvin. And so I come to you, frost-encrusted like a grouchier version of the White Queen from Narnia or some shit, with a new installment of fanfic. Yay!

To answer some questions: Yes, tree1138, it is the same Erica from Musical Mosaic, well done for remembering! madam-du-batty, I was thinking like a blowgun, with those exotic fluffy little darts, but I can see the confusion, and should have it corrected by now. LemonBubble, I ship this pairing like I have never shipped anything before, as it is legit the only pairing that is not canon-established that I can get on board with. I hope I can make you a fan by the time this is over haha.

-()-

**5) Sara Bareilles – King of Anything**

Captain Carrot stood at attention in front of Lord Vetinari's desk, hand still raised following his ever-crisp salute. Vetinari sighed. He hated these meetings. "At ease, Captain." Carefully, he squared up the papers on his desk. There were no notes. There never were, not when it was Carrot that requested the audience with him.

"Sir." Carrot stayed standing, in blatant defiance of the chair right behind him. Drumknott looked to Vetinari, nodding once before slipping out of the Office. Vetinari folded his hands and leaned forward.

"So, ah, Captain – is there something you wanted?"

Carrot watched Vetinari for a minute. Vetinari didn't flinch, and while he figured that hadn't been Carrot's intention in the first place, he was also fairly sure that it would have been a mistake. Then the tall ginger man smiled widely. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Almost makes one want to take a walk, hm?" Carrot looked over the Patrician's head, bouncing happily on the balls of his feet. "Get out a bit, hm?"

Vetinari gave the younger man a look before reaching out for his pen. "Yes, I suppose. However, Captain, regretfully I have quite a _lot_ of paperwork –"

"Right, of course, far too busy to slip out, sir, I understand. Especially not to Pellicool Steps." Vetinari looked up from his paperwork. Not sharply, never sharply, not with the Captain. Carrot smiled. "The Commander can be a very easy man to read, sir. Especially when one makes everything in the city one's business."

Vetinari sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I had imagined something would come up about that sooner or later."

"She's hardly a 'that', sir. A very nice lady, I'm given to understand. We haven't met," he added.

"That's probably for the best." Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Is that – she – what this is about?"

"Not so specifically, sir, not so specifically." Carrot took a moment to look around the office. "I've always said personal isn't the same is important, haven't I, sir?" The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few thousand degrees. Vetinari and Carrot suddenly were staring each other down, smiles fixed in the classic 'if-you-don't-make-any-sudden-moves-I-won't-either' expression.

"I think you have, yes." Vetinari slowly laid his pen aside and folded his hands again, leaning forward onto his desk. "I can't say I've ever disagreed with it."

"Good to hear, sir, excellent. And are we in agreement about what is important, sir?" Vetinari's eyes narrowed. "Drumknott hasn't said anything, but upon looking through recent city records it would appear as though you are _behind_ on your paperwork, sir." His smile never wavered: glassy and not ever reaching his eyes.

"The city is fine, Captain, thank you for your concern," the Patrician responded stiffly.

"Capital. I'd hate to think what would happen should it not be." They watched each other for a moment, neither flinching. "After all, a city requires an effective leader."

"And while I hate to praise myself, _Captain_, I would say that it _has_ one, thank you for your concern." He smiled thinly. "I, of course, expect the same of the brave members of our own police force. How _is_ Captain Angua?"

"Well, thank you." Carrot put his helmet on, but the tension in the room still didn't subside. "Of course, we have time to meet while we're off shift, to catch up and that sort of thing." He smirked. "I'd imagine finding time like that would be almost impossible for someone in your position." He saluted. "Shame, really. Have a nice day, sir."

-()-

It was a week later when Captain Carrot met Grace Speaker for the first time. 'Met' was actually probably a bit of a generous word. 'Was assaulted by' was much more apt, given the circumstances. The woman – curvy, not more than five and a half feet, solidly built, grabbed the Captain by the bicep while he was on patrol and hauled him into an alley before he could grab his truncheon. He blinked after his armor scraped on the brickwork, and then smiled brightly. "And you must be Grace."

"Oh like _you don't know_." She glared. "Don't try to look innocent with me. I don't care who you are; _what_ you are is an utter fuckmook."

"I'm sorry?" He blinked.

She pushed a finger into his chest and his armor scraped the bricks again. "What makes him so different from anyone else, hm? And what makes you so damn special?" She leaned in. "How _dare_ you try to tell someone what to do with their life?"

Carrot, despite his physicality insisting that he could easily push her away, leaned back into the bricks. "You have to understand, Miss Speaker, that the city –"

"Is _fine_."

"Is a _very_ delicate operation," he continued, despite the interruption, "and it requires complete focus to be run _properly_."

"How do you know?"

He paused. "Well."

"Well?" She watched him imperiously, hands on her hips. She leaned in. "Now you listen, Captain Carrot. I respect that you care about the city, and that you probably have a better idea about how it works than most do, but _never_ assume you know better than the person in the position to know _exactly_ how to run it."

"Madam," he said firmly, standing up and pushing off the bricks so that he loomed over the woman. She didn't flinch. "I have a vested interest in making sure this city is run as well as it can possibly be run, regardless of extenuating circumstances." Grace raised an eyebrow and gave his birthmark a good long look. "I mean no offense, but I disagree with certain . . . decisions being made right now."

She stood on tiptoe, leaning in, otherwise pretty, round face twisted into a fearsome scowl. "_Who_," she asked, prodding him in the chest again, "died and made _you_ king of anything?"

Carrot blinked. "Would you like me to answer that honestly?"

"I don't care how you answer it," she hissed. "All I care is that you think good and hard about the consequences of telling him what he is and isn't _allowed_ to do. Personal, young man, isn't the same as important. Remember that." And then, suddenly, she was all smiles, patting him on the breastplate before turning and walking from the alley. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around, Captain."

Carrot blinked and considered the situation. Futures whirred in front of his mind's eye, different legs of the Trousers of Time, all springing forward from this one moment. He looked over the ridge of the building hemming in the alley, towards the Patrician's Palace. And then he smiled.

Things that were personal, he reflected, were very much not the same as the things that were important. And suddenly, for the first time since he'd heard Miss Speaker's name mentioned, he was very glad indeed of that. And, also, most importantly, that _no one_ had died and made anyone king of anything, and he could get on with being Captain Carrot.

-()-


	6. Rainy Day Women  12 & 35

And hello hello again to all good _morning_. Chapter 6 is here for your consideration, I do hope you enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Also, thanks for the feedback on chapter 5. Madam-du-batty, I am always happy to explain things. :) And i am the stig, I wholeheartedly agree with you, and sort of wish I could figure out why that chapter turned out the way it did. Of all the chapters in this thing, Carrot's was my least favorite, no debate, for exactly the reasons you mentioned. But Vetinari and Carrot have a weird relationship, I feel like, and I did want to play with that a little. Plus I do hate Carrot quite a lot so maybe some of my hatred is all leaking out haha. Either way, glad you're enjoying the story. :)

ANYWAY have at it, kids. The song for this one is really great, so I of course really recommend you take a listen while you're reading or some other time.

-()-

**6) Bob Dylan – Rainy Day Women #12 & 35**

Breaking and entering was something that Grace Speaker had long since become acquainted with. Not because she lived in a bad part of the city(1), but because she was carrying out a strange relationship with the ruler of said city, and his hours were bizarre and random, and usually the back door to her shop was locked. She kept meaning to get a key for him, but thus far it had slipped her mind.

So she wasn't alarmed, one late afternoon, when the locked door to the back room of the shop opened, a little silver bell signaling this to her. She slid down from her stool behind the counter and leaned around the ampty doorframe into the back room.

She very rapidly _became_ alarmed when she saw that the would-be burglar was _not_ the usual one, and instead was a woman. Tall, middle-aged, quite attractive, her black hair close-cropped and fashionably styled, and her pointed incisors sparkling white. Grace's eyes flickered to the other woman's pink cardigan and she quelled the sudden roiling in her stomach. _Damn damn damn, I knew she was around this week! How does she know_?

"And you must be Grace Speaker," Lady Margolotta said smoothly, pulling her gloves off. They were pink, and fuzzy, and had stupid little baubles attached to the wrists. None of which mattered, Grace realized, because stupid puffy pink baubles or not, Lady Margolotta was probably going to kill her. "I had _zo_ hoped to find you here."

"Yes, well, it's my shop. I'm usually here," Grace's mouth supplied, independent from her brain, which was currently waiting to activate all panic protocols. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you, your Ladyship."

"I vas rather counting on it." She smiled warmly and raised an eyebrow. "I am zo very sorry to have broken into your shop, but I thought zat perhaps the front door vas a bit obvious." She pulled one of the chairs out from the counter and sat, primly, legs crossed, and patted the seat of the other chair before folding her hands on her knee. "Come, sit. I vould like to get to know you, and I believe ve have zome . . . _things_ ve must discuss."

"I have to watch the front of the shop," she said, weakly.

"I have positioned my librarian in front of your door. You needn't vorry for a time. Now, please, _sit_." Grace sat, her legs moving on autopilot. Lady Margolotta brushed an invisible speck of lint off her sensible brown trousers. "I shan't insult you by trying to make small talk; I think ve both know vhy I am here."

"Does Havelock know you're here?"

"Ah, no. No, I am afraid I told him a little vhite lie about lunch with a friend. I never did mention vhich friend; had he asked, I would have told him." She thought. "Or perhaps not."

"Well I'm sorry but I don't have much around for lunch." Grace laughed weakly, while her brain chirped 'She's going to eat you!' with more cheerfulness than the situation strictly warranted. "I could do some sandwiches, I suppose –"

"No, I vouldn't vant to impose. Besides, I imagine this visit vill be quite short, anyway. Ve have approximately fifteen minutes before Havelock finds out vhere I've gone and arrives. I expect he'll be quite vorried." Her smile was brittle now. "Zat is a danger, you see, zat predictability. But perhaps today it vill vork in my favor."

"Is there something I can help you with your Ladyship?" Grace, despite her brain being in full fight-or-flight mode, struggled to regain some semblance of rationality. Perhaps the easiest way would be to bide her time. Surely Margolotta wouldn't eat her in front of Havelock. Would she? She was a Black Ribonner, after all, _The_ Black Ribonner, and there was her reputation to consider . . .

"Please, call me Margolotta. I vas hoping, Grace, that ve could have vhat I believe is called a _girl talk_. Voman-to-voman, hmm?" She patted the other woman's knee. "Come now, don't be so nervous, I'm not planning on eating you."

Grace smiled weakly. "Well as long as you're not planning on it, that's alright." As soon as she'd realized what she'd said, the color drained out of her cheeks. Margolotta watched her for a cool moment, and then laughed lightly.

"I can see vhy he likes you. How long have you known eachozzer?"

Grace debated lying, but what would be the point? She shrugged. "About six or seven years, give or take."

"Zat's quite a long time for humans. How old are you?"

"I beg your pardon!" Grace was many things, but even she wasn't immune to vanity. Margolotta grinned.

"You don't have to say, I vas merely curious. I assume you are close to the same age as Havelock?"

"Yes. Close enough."

"And does he care for you?"

Her thoughts, weakly gathered, scattered for the hills. She opened her mouth, closed it, and thought. "Yes. Yes, I think he does."

"I'd imagine you do. You are lucky to be . . . geographically desirable. All I get are letters, you get enviable visits." She shot Grace a look, haughty and cold.

"You don't have to stay in Überwald." It was a stupid thing to say, and Grace acknowledged it almost immediately when the vampire scowled nastily. But the 'geographically desirable' comment had grated her.

"Nor does _he_ have to stay in this city, Miss _Speaker_, but ve both have such a lot to do." She shifted her position slightly. "Ve vould see how much he cares for you if you vere not so convenient."

"Excuse – _Excuse me_? _Convenient_? Ha!" She gripped the edges of her chair and leaned forward. "I'm about as inconvenient as it gets, believe me! At least _you_ are safer because of the distance and the fact that you're both politicians. Me? If anyone bothered to put two and two together and tell the city I think the crossword would be a fairly unbelievable, pathetic cover story. I _know_ I'm inconvenient, we've had _talks_ about how inconvenient I am! Don't you dare for one minute tell me it's just because I'm _convenient_!"

"You can't imagine the sorts of things you don't know about him," Margolotta snarled, likewise leaning in. "I've known him since he vas a child. How dare _you_ think you're special?"

"You're a creepy old bat, you know that?" Suicidality charged in, riding a glorious steed of jealousy. "You don't know nearly as much as you think you do; just because you've known someone their whole life doesn't mean you _know_ them."

"Likewise just because you're dating someone. You have no idea the type of person he is. In my life I have never met anozzer human like him."

"Me _neither_."

"Hardly difficult, for a creature who can reasonably only expect to live to sixty-five."

"Well maybe _that's_ part of your problem, _Ladyship_." Grace smirked. "He's just the same as me, you know. Sixty-five years old, dead the next morning, right?"

"You don't know that."

"Oh I rather think I _do_. What, you're so close but you don't know his species? Some relationship that is." She patted her cheeks. "Just as human as me, Ladyship, get used to it! Like you said, dead at sixty-five. You've only had thirty-five years to lure him in with your charms, I'm sure he'll come around in the next _ten_."

"Oh please, the only ozzer thing between him and I before _you_ vas the city. And you can't be so ignorant as to think he'd leave the city for you."

"Of course he wouldn't, and I'm not going to ask him to." She drew herself up. "_You_ did." She watched as Margolotta glanced down, just for a second. "You think I didn't know? That he didn't tell me? Of course he didn't tell me _everything_, but he told me why it wasn't going to happen. You made him choose, and he couldn't throw the city away. He still wouldn't. And I'm not going to ask him to." She raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

The older woman, who looked about ten years younger than Grace, frowned. "I can't leave my country." She sighed. "Regardless, you can't possibly understand him. Like I said, convenience."

"You have no idea." She mirrored Margolotta's posture. "If it's so convenient why does he actually seem to like me?"

The vampire waved a hand. "You should know; he's an excellent actor. He sends _me_ gifts."

"Likewise. And brings me takeout." She leaned back. "_And_ takes me out to dinner."

"You can't possibly understand the politics involved in his life."

"Try me."

"Fine. The trade agreement with the Low King."

"Mediated by you, largest source of tallow for the city, negotiated initially by Commander Vimes of all people. He's told me about the partnership with the democracy in Pseudopolis, too."

"Everyone on the international scale knows about that. _I_ know about the underground trade in textiles vith Klatch. And zat he doesn't eat meat."

"Common knowledge, practically, and he doesn't eat green things either. Breen things are okay, though."

"Breen isn't a _vord_, Miss Speaker. And I helped vith the scientific knowledge trade between Ankh-Morpork and Genua."

"It _is_ a word, look it up. And not only did I help convince him that sharing of scientific knowledge between nations is a brilliant idea, we then wrote up the rough draft and he went and brought take-out back."

"He broke into my cellar to prove a point vhen he vas staying at my castle."

"I've never made him feel like he has to commit delinquent crimes in order to prove a point." She gestured to the shop. "And he commissioned Leonard of Quirm to design the watering system for my shop. _And_ he put it together. Badly, but it was the thought that counted."

"His fixed my heating system at my castle. Badly," she added. "In fact, it broke a veek after he left and I had to replace the whole thing." She smiled fondly. "But I suppose as you said, it vas the thought zat counted." They exchanged a look, and Margolotta sighed. "Vell, this simply von't do, Grace." She leaned back. "He is the same man, after all, and he's made his own choices."

"Yes, he has." Grace allowed herself a little bit of smugness here. "Bickering over it won't help anything. We're mature adults, after all."

"No, no. I am zorry, I'm afraid my temper ran away vith me."

"Well, I'm guilty too." They avoided each other's gaze for a minute, Grace looking around the back room, Margolotta examining her fingernails.

"I do vonder . . . does he still talk about the city in his sleep?"

Grace giggled. "Yes, all the time. He talks _to_ it." She played with her hair a little. "When you knew him back then . . . would he explain some weird political concept that's all underhanded and convoluted, and then if you asked him to explain something about it, he'd give you a look like lobsters just started crawling out of your ears?"

Margolotta laughed. "Yes! At first I vas insulted, because he vas barely more than a child, but he is somezing so . . . different. Does he still have that ratty old map of the city vith all the notes on it?"

"You can barely _read_ it anymore." She giggled, her hand over her mouth. "It's all worn and torn and pasted together. And sometimes when he's thinking really hard he sort of . . . pets it."

Margolotta was still laughing, hands on her stomach. "Yes! Yes, even zen he vould do that, vhen he zought I vasn't vatching!"

"I know! And I always feel awkward watching . . . Like, do you two want some time alone?" Grace howled. "It's a _map_!" Just then, as the two women were nearly to the point of hysterics, the bell over the back door jingled again and Vetinari scrambled in, out of breath and uncharacteristically disheveled.

"No one kill anyone!" He blinked as they pointed at him and erupted into another fit of laughter. "Uh. O-kay. What?" He watched as they giggled, helplessly slumped in their chairs. "Er, I'm glad you two are getting along . . ." He watched them for another minute. "What?" Margolotta made to say something, but another fit of giggles overcame her. "_Stop_ it."

As he stood there, awkwardly, watching both women point and laugh helplessly at his expense for reasons unknown, he sort of wished they _had_ tried to kill one another. At least he would have understood that.

(1) Arguably, the entire city was the bad part, anyway.

-()-

I apologize for Margolotta's accent; that shit got out of control.


	7. Absolutely

Buena mañana mis amigos! Hoy, dormí hasta 1000 y lo era gloriosa. Amo sueño, y no puedo tan mucho durante las meses cuando hay la escuela. Glad you all liked chapter six so much! I was quite proud of it. Hope you enjoy this one as well.

-()-

**7) Nine Days – Absolutely (Story of a Girl)**

Grace Speaker was many things: pet shop owner, crossword compiler, amateur historian and secret girlfriend to the ruler of the city, but one thing she most certainly was not, perhaps due to the above points, was unobservant. This was the main reason she was beginning to become acutely aware, as the weeks went on, that one particular boy seemed to be frequenting her shop without ever buying anything, and only when her only employee and unofficial daughter-figure Erica was working.

"So who's that boy, then?" she asked one day, pencil rubbing out a clue on the next week's crossword. Erica, preoccupied with stocking the shelves, nearly dropped a dog bowl. "Careful."

"Huh?"

Grace looked up and caught Erica's panicked and stunned expression. She smirked. "That brown-haired young man you were speaking to?" she asked, slowly. "He asked you about the cat toys? He's been in here nearly every time you've been working for the past few weeks."

"Oh, uh. He's a cat fancier."

"Funny, he never buys anything."

"A poor cat fancier." Erica withered under the look Grace gave her. "What? Anyway, miss, with all due respect, I _do not_ have to tell you."

"What's his name?"

"Miss!"

"Erica, as a valuable employee of this business, I expect you should probably know the names of our regulars, whether or not they buy anything. Now, go on, what's his name?" Erica sulked for a minute, arranging the dog bowls this way and that until, apparently, they met her satisfaction. She scowled at them and put her hands on her hips. "Go on."

"S'Lars."

"_Lars_?" Grace laughed and then stopped herself, covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry."

"You laughed!"

"It was a laugh of . . . of surprise. It's an uncommon name," she managed, as diplomatic as she could. Erica huffed and turned her back to the counter, re-arranging the dog biscuits. "Oh, come on, Erica. It's just . . . _Lars_?"

"You're one to talk! It's not like _your_ boyfriend's named 'Steve' or something."

"Oh, so he's your boyfriend?" Grace's eyes sparkled.

"_No_!"

"Right, he's just a cat fancier. Who's walked you home from work for the past week. And brought you a coffee last Thursday."

"You weren't even here," Erica groaned, hand over her eyes. "How do you know that?"

"I was here, I was just in my apartment."

"Were you spying on me?"

"Not spying. Supervising."

"_Miss_."

Grace raised her hands. "Alright, fine, he seems nice enough, so no more said on the matter." She chuckled. "Of _Lars_." Erica sighed and Grace laughed, snorting and chuckling to herself sporadically for the remainder of the afternoon.

Later that evening, Grace and Erica had apparently reached a peace and were making their way through a pizza with Vetinari. As Grace delicately pulled a slice from the pie, she raised her eyebrows. "So, Havelock, what do you think of the name Lars?" Erica looked up sharply, but was savvy enough to keep her mouth shut.

Vetinari gave Grace a puzzled look and swallowed. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

He shrugged. "I dunno. It's a bit unusual, isn't it?"

"Oh, because there's a million people in the world named _Havelock_," Erica snapped, and then froze, slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. "Whoops." Vetinari was watching her curiously and Grace was coughing helplessly into her napkin.

"So what was _that_ little outburst about?" Vetinari smirked. "Was that defensiveness I detected?"

"_No_."

Grace and Vetinari exchanged a look, both trying not to smile. "Yes." Grace was almost laughing now. "Very defensive."

"So you have a boyfriend?" Vetinari raised an eyebrow, examining his slice of pizza. "Named Lars?"

"He's a cat fancier! And you're a traitor, miss," she added, crossing her arms and pouting.

"Is he any good?" Vetinari asked, unperturbed.

"How am I supposed to answer that question?"

"Honestly, for preference," Vetinari deadpanned. Grace snorted into her pizza, overcome by snickering.

"He's nice!" Erica threw her hands up. "He's very polite and he's mindful and he walks me home and he cares about what I have to say and he makes me laugh! He took me out to dinner last Saturday and then we went to the football. It was a good time," she concluded. "Happy?"

"They weren't supposed to put banana peppers on this," Vetinari said. Grace nodded in agreement.

"_Well_?"

"So long as you're happy." Grace conceded, finally. She was picking the peppers off the pizza. "We just wanted to make you sweat a little, you know how it is."

"I mean, honestly, what are you guys, my _parents_?" Erica shuddered. "You might as well be, for the inquisition act I have to go through every new boyfriend I get."

"Perish the thought." Vetinari smirked a little.

"Someone's coming toward the store," Grace warned, peering out the front window. Vetinari dove for cover behind the counter. Not long after, a knock at the door rattled the glass, making the bell over the door jingle weakly. "He is a persistent cat fancier," Grace observed dryly. "Coming 'round when the shop's closed and everything."

"I have to go," Erica said, getting to her feet and hurrying to the door. "See you tomorrow, miss." The lock slid open and the bell rang. There was a snap as she pulled the door shut again and the lock ground back into place. "I think he wants to kiss her, but she's too embarrassed." A pause. "Yeah, they're leaving." She giggled. "And he's staring in here; he looks confused. He must have seen someone dive under the counter. Oh, they're holding hands."

"Cute." He reached up and grabbed the remains of his pizza slice. "Is his name really Lars?"

"Probably – I can't imagine her making something that ridiculous up." She looked to Vetinari, seated on the floor, leaning up against the back of the counter. "You can sit back up here, you know. It's safe now."

"Do we act like her parents?"

"What?" Grace took a contemplative bite of pizza crust. "I mean, yes, I suppose. Sometimes." She sighed. "To be honest, I think you and I are the closest thing to parents she's going to get, considering the family she's coming from."

"Well, that's an absolutely terrifying thought." Grace kicked his shoulder, gently. "What? It is. I'm certainly not fit to be anyone's parent, that's for sure."

"I should hope you _are_, considering you're a godparent to Vimes' _and_ von Lipwig's children."

"That's different – I just let them do whatever they want and hand them back to their parents at the end of the day. No actual responsibility is expected beyond keeping their children alive. But acting as a parent figure to a teenage girl, now _that_ is a very different box of crayons."

"I think you're mixing up your figures of speech."

"You get my point, though."

Grace shrugged. "Fine. Let her date whoever she wants to date. No big deal, then." She lowered the box of pizza down to his level. "Have another slice."

"Well we can't very well let her do _that_. What if he's some dreadful unemployed snob that lives with his parents or something?" He paused, and looked up at her, hand halfway to the food. "Oh. _Now_ I see what you're saying."

She shook the box. "See, it's not hard. Now don't take the slice with all the olives on it, I wanted that one." A pause as the box was raised back to counter-level. "You bastard."

-()-


	8. Your Winter

And another late update because oh my God is sleeping in terrific. Glad you all are liking it! Virtuella, I would totally let him watch my kids – every kid needs a crazy uncle. And tree, that sort of talk is always fun. You're trying to make all friendly, your dad just sits there and cleans his shotgun, your boyfriend sweats it out . . . Awkward.

Anyway, today's kind of a downer. Enjoy it anyway though.

-()-

**(8) Sister Hazel – Your Winter**

Word of the assassination attempt spread through the city like wildfire, but it didn't reach Pellicool Pets until Sybil Ramkin walked in. Grace looked up and smiled briefly, but when she caught the other woman's expression she froze. "What?"

"I think you should come with me."

Grace was ushered through the Palace halls, careful to keep her hood up, trailing after Sybil like an attendant, expression neutral. Her heart was pounding, her stomach felt like it was in a cold, frozen puddle in the base of her belly, her every instinct to sprint down the hall and leave Sybil behind, to cry, to do something, but she didn't. Carefully, she followed along to the top floor, and drew even with the plain door, just down the hall from the Oblong Office. The Office itself had been crawling with Watchmen, a sheet-covered mass lying on the floor, surrounded by the rapidly-growing forensics division. Grace must have inhaled sharply, because Sybil turned and quickly shook her head. Outside the Patrician's room, however, it was just Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot, who looked to both the women in turn.

"He'll be fine, eventually," Vimes sighed. "Got to the assassin before the bastard could even draw his crossbow properly." He pulled out a cigar and bit the end off, spitting the waste onto the floor. "Saved his own skin, again, the bastard. And I'd almost had him talked into bodyguards."

"No you didn't," Grace murmured, distracted. "Can I go in?"

"Well, Doctor Lawn said he's to rest," Carrot said, "probably more on account of the medicines." Grace gave him a look and he nearly flinched, blinking and raising his eyebrows. "But in the circumstances, I think you should probably go in."

After she'd slipped inside, she eased the door closed. The room was dark, as the shutters were drawn, but there was enough mid-afternoon light to make out the thin form on the bed. She walked over, carefully, quietly, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I got shot," he told her, without preamble, voice quiet and hoarse. He was choosing his words carefully and speaking deliberately, but there was still a faint slur, likely an aftereffect from the blood loss or the drugs. She rested a hand on his head and then, because she didn't know what else to do or say, nodded, tears running down her face. He looked at her warily, tired but more or less alert. "You're going to cry, aren't you?" She nodded again. "Alright, well, it was my right side, so avoid that."

Cautiously she crawled across the bed and lay down next to him, burying her face in his shoulder. A quiet sob broke her, and her shoulders shook. He wrapped his arm around her, wincing a little, and rested his chin on her head. "I'll be fine," he muttered. "I've had worse."

"I know." Her voice was choked, as rigidly controlled as she should manage. He rubbed her shoulder a little. "I was just so scared." He didn't say anything, and just held her for a while as she calmed down, curled up against him. "I'm glad you're going to be okay," she said eventually, sighing and sniffling. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," he murmured, half-asleep.

"What for?"

"Getting shot." She looked at him and he shrugged as much as he could manage. "Scaring you."

She laughed a little, through the tears, and brushed some hair out of his face, smiling weakly. "Yes, watch out for that in the future." Her hand settled on his forehead. "It wasn't your fault."

"Doesn't matter."

"So what happened?"

"Crossbow bolt got me – I wasn't _quite_ fast enough." He shifted a little, and she noticed the subtle wince and intake of breath. "Got a pretty sweet puncture wound and a couple cracked ribs out of it. He gets a free cremation and a plot out on the plains all to himself."

She was still crying, and she sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve. "You know, sometimes I think I hate your job enough for both of us."

He was quiet for a while, but after a time, he opened his eyes and looked at her. "You want me to resign?" The question hit her blindside, and she blinked. "Well?"

"You wouldn't."

"I'd consider it." There was a quick smile, lop-sided and exhausted. "I am getting kind of old for this crap."

She breathed for a minute, not crying now, tears still drying on her face. "No," she said finally. "No, don't do that. Not for me, anyway. There are better reasons."

"There are a great many worse reasons."

She watched him for a minute before she smiled and slid forward in the bed, giving him a quick kiss, smiling just a little. "No, don't. You love your job. Besides, I couldn't have you around all the time – you'd get underfoot."

"That is a distinct possibility."

She ran her fingers through his hair again and settled in, eyelids drooping. "But you _can_ promise me you'll at least entertain the thought of bodyguards. Or better security."

"Oh, I'll entertain it alright." He was nearly asleep too, now, Grace pressed up against him, his arm wrapped around her. She gently slung her arm across his shoulders, holding him.

"Rest," she mumbled. "You want me to get you anything?" He squeezed her shoulders softly and she smiled.

"Just stay here."

-()-


	9. Rhythm of Love

Hello again my friends! Happy weekend, I do hope you're enjoying. I have to go to work today at 1 so I am not enjoying so much anymore but ah well, what can you do? Anyhow, here is chapter 9. We're getting in to the end here, but this is just some delicious little fluff for you to enjoy before we get to the last 2 chapters.

-()-

**9) Plain White T's – Rhythm of Love**

Warm sunlight filtered in through the snow-caked pane of the window and Grace closed her eyes, reveling in it, hands wrapped around a mug. "You ready?" she asked quietly, inhaling deeply, taking in the scent of her tea.

"As I'll ever be, I think."

"It's just baking, you loser. Surely you can bake."

"So confidently said by the woman who has never seen me even attempt to cook." Vetinari was carefully taking in the curves of a measuring cup. "There's a reason for that, you know."

"Well, you have an aide today, so I am doubtful you'll be able to mess up _that_ badly." She laid her mug aside and thrust the recipe card at him. "It's butter, sugar, salt and cornstarch. If you manage to mess up four ingredients I will hereby excuse you from cooking for the rest of your life."

"Oh, I will."

Grace was endlessly amused by Havelock Vetinari, if only because there were parts of him that were so very, deeply incongruous to what he would have the rest of the world believe about him. Cold, calculated, distant and ruthless, the tyrant of Ankh-Morpork, infallible and all-knowing, and here he was standing in her kitchen, hair and black shirt streaked with powdered sugar, trying to read a measuring cup with, it had to be said, a limited amount of success. She smiled and took the cup from him. "You've got too much."

"See? I'm telling you, epic failure is imminent. I literally cannot cook."

"Explains why you're so skinny, anyway." She thrust a bowl at him. "Stir."

Outside, the snow fell and covered the city in a thick blanket, successfully driving the Hogswatch Eve shopping to a grinding halt. Inside, Grace set out the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies and, nearly as soon as she'd turned her back, was coated in a layer of flour. "The bags are pressurized, obviously," was the immediate explanation offered. She shook her head, flour cascading to the floor.

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting side-by-side on the counter, discussing whether or not it was better to quit while they were ahead. "It's only going to get worse when there's an oven involved," Havelock said matter-of-factly before eating a spoonful of cookie dough.

"Would you _not_?" Grace snatched the spoon back. "And stop arguing with me, it'll be fine."

"I'm not arguing, I'm just explaining why I'm right."

She rolled her eyes and smacked him on the back of his hand with the spoon. "Would you _stop eating the dough._"

Twenty more minutes, and a batch of very flat, very crispy cookies emerged from the oven. Grace sighed and turned, looking over her shoulder, trying not to smile. He was leaning up against the counter, eating the dough once more, one eyebrow raised, the effect somewhat spoiled by the tremendous amount of flour he was covered with. "Told you so."

She chuckled. "I suppose you did." The cookie tray was set aside, and she made her way over to him, picking up a spoon on the way. "Well, move over, anyway, at least the dough tastes fine."

-()-


	10. I Am the Doctor

Have we really arrived here already? The penultimate installment! My goodness, it's hard to believe. Truthfully _tomorrow's_ chapter should go up today, as this one sort of fails to be romantic on a lot of levels, but ah well. I'm single, and therefore obligated to hate Valentine's Day (so I'm told – in reality I have very few feelings toward a day of mass-produced sappiness, other than happiness when someone gives me chocolates). So this is a good . . . anti-Valentine? Whatever just enjoy it, that is my gift to you.

-()-

**10) Murray Gold – I Am The Doctor**

People all around the city were on edge, and not just due to the strange news reports trickling in from the plains. Reports of bandits calling themselves 'Project Pandemonium', who plundered cities for all they were worth, aided and abetted by explosives and unknown means – alien and mechanical and unsettling. No, the city was altogether uneasy because its leadership – Commander Vimes, mainly – seemed to be, if not totally at a loss, then unsure of what to do as well.

"It's like they don't even know where to start," Neriss confided to Grace, over a cup of coffee in the front room of her pet shop. "Even Lord Vetinari's been tight-lipped on the subject. Not a word from anyone, really, except that 'precautions are being taken'." She ran her free hand through her hair. "I've got a shop and family to worry about, and what am I supposed to do about this? Some unknown threat coming in from all sides? They managed to grind Pseudopolis to a halt with five explosions and fifteen minutes, and everything worth stealing from the President's Mansion and the National Bank was gone."

"I wouldn't think you're a target really," Grace murmured, although to be honest she was worried too. Neriss didn't need to know that the reason behind _her_ nerves was that Lord Vetinari had been scrabbling for a week and a half to find _anything_ on the band of thieves, and hadn't even been able to turn up a confirmed number of people involved. Membership seemed to be fluid, numbers growing and shrinking, some members there for one raid, never to be heard from again. It made the whole project difficult to trace and impossible to predict, even with Vetinari's men in black and Vimes' Sammies spread out halfway across the continent.

"Who knows? Anyone's a target. They burned out a tailor in Quirm, and looted a couple shops on their way to Pseudopolis too, no rhyme or reason." She shivered and set her mug down. "I feel like I should get back to my shop, but what's the risk in that, eh? Nowhere's safe."

"Well it's not doing any good worrying about it." Grace crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged. "We can sit here and talk about it all day, or we can wait for someone to blow something up _or_ we can keep alert for suspicious things, right? And what better place to do that than your shop?"

"I don't think these . . . miscreants are much interested in miscellaneous goods."

"Could be. Who knows what they're interested in?" The bell over the door tinkled and Neriss jumped down from her stool with a wave.

"Ta dear, keep safe." She looked over her shoulder, expression grim, before brushing past the customer, who had his back to her.

"You used the front door," Grace noted, tone mildly accusing, as soon as the door had closed behind her friend. "You never use the front door." In half a second he was across the shop and had a hand around her wrist.

"You need to come with me." She'd never seen him like this, not in all those years of knowing him, and she fought the urge to pull back. There was a feverish intensity there, some kind of mad flame roaring inside him. She let him pull her through the back of the shop.

"The front door's not even locked."

"It's not going to matter." In the alley behind the shop he scrambled up onto a shed and pulled her up after him.

Icy realization settled in. "What about the animals?" she whispered. "How long?"

He held a finger to his lips and she followed him to the roofs. Her foot had just caught the gutter when the first explosion went off. She looked sharply over her shoulder, getting her feet under her, watching as black smoke and angry red flames bubbled up towards the sky, belched from the remains of a building three streets over. "No," she said, not quite believing it as he caught her under the arm and pulled her off after him.

"Run!" In the streets, people were screaming, flooding out of buildings through doors, windows, anything that presented itself.

"They're going to blow up my shop!" She wasn't sure why that was important right now, sprinting after the Patrician across the rooftops of the city, away from the next explosion, toward the Shades.

"Not if Vimes got there first!" She followed him in a leap across a narrow alley, rolling on the landing before he pulled her after him again.

"So why are we running?"

"In case he didn't." She wasn't sure where exactly they were going – her city geography was a bit off at this level, but eventually he slowed and bent double, hands on his knees, catching his breath. She slumped to the rooftop beside him and could only watch as the hubwards wing of the Palace went up in a spectacular fireball.

"No." Her hand flew to her mouth and she froze there, staring almost unseeing, yellow remnants of the explosion still burned into her eyeballs. "No, no, no nononono." She looked up to him, helpless. "All of those people."

He tapped his temple and grinned madly, still panting. "Ah, but, you see, I'm much cleverer than they give me credit for, sometimes."

"What?"

"Hours ago, _hours_, we had that whole wing evacuated. Had half the building evacuated!" He straightened and tugged his black jacket back into place before brushing the remnants of some roofing dust off his trousers. The mad fire was still there, and while her heart had stopped pounding somewhat since his revelation, she was a still bit frightened. This was, she realized, the Havelock Vetinari everyone was afraid of. That no one ever saw, standing in front of her, lunatic smile plastered across his face, disheveled and breathless and looking over his city.

"But the street!"

"Mostly evacuated – on the quiet, mind you – a few days ago for 'civic remodeling'. Ha!" He gestured wildly, spinning on her. "They thought they had me, and they were _this_ close but I'm not stupid."

"It's Project Pandemonium, isn't it?"

"Oh, oh yes." He rubbed his hands together. "Vimes should have fully half of them now, corralled in by the explosions and his officers. The other half we have already. Except for one. Their disorganization was their biggest advantage but it was _such_ a good weakness."

"Just one?" Grace blinked. "But they're impossible to track, you couldn't find any trace of them. You said so, you said you looked and looked and you couldn't –"

"I had to be baffled." He held out his hands and pulled her to her feet. "Vimes had to be baffled, the city had to be running scared. It was the only way to be sure. And now I have him." He strode off and Grace paused just for a moment before storming after him.

"What do you mean '_I_ have him'?"

"Go to Scoone Avenue," he ordered, spinning around to face her. "Lady Sybil's waiting for you there. Hide in the dragon houses."

"_Havelock_."

"There's a ring of watchmen around the place, no one's getting through. They have instructions, they won't give you any trouble."

She glared then, grabbing him by the lapels. "I am _not_ going to sit with Sybil while you run off and do something foolish."

"Who said it was foolish? I'm not foolish. When have I ever once been foolish?" He caught her expression and even through whatever else was going on in his head right now, Grace could see her words registering. "You are _not_ coming with me. That would be foolish."

She pushed him back. "I _am_. You think you're so clever, this should be no problem."

"It's not safe."

"All the more reason for someone to come along to watch your skinny arse." He raised an eyebrow and she stood her ground, hands on her hips, shoulders heaving. "That street – _my shop_ – that they were going to attack means as much to me as this whole damn city means to you. And if you think I'm going to sit around and wait while you and Vimes take care of everything, you have another thing coming."

He watched her for a minute before the grin returned, and he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her into a kiss. "I love Morporkians," he said, while she gaped at him.

"Oy!" She shook her head, clearing away the shock, and jogged off after him, already ahead of her across the rooftops. "Just general Morporkians?"

"You in particular!"

"That's better." Her eyes widened as, ahead of her, he jumped from the rooftop and disappeared from sight. "Oh, bugger." They were three stories up, and if there was a landing, she'd be fine. If there wasn't, he'd be in a terrible amount of trouble for not catching her. "Geronimo!"

"What's that mean, then?" he asked, hoisting her out of the pile of down she'd landed in.

"I don't know, it felt right." She looked around. "Where are we?"

"Paper Street." Ahead of them, a rickety old building, boarded-up and smoked out, proclaimed itself the 'Paper Street Soap Manufacturer'. She followed as he strode up the front steps and into the dark hall. She wondered briefly how he knew the layout of the building, as they wove through dark room after dark room, dodging bedrolls and bunk beds and washbasins and bags of clothing. Then again, he was Patrician, and he had apparently known about this hideout for some time. When the door to the basement creaked open, she paused.

"Is that wise?"

"It's necessary. I thought you wanted to come." She could picture the bloody raised eyebrow, even if she couldn't see it.

"I still do."

"Well, tally ho then." The stairs groaned and creaked under them, and Grace could feel one or two bow with her weight. Behind them, the door slammed shut with a hiss of hydraulics, and an oil lamp flared to light at the bottom of the staircase, on the other side of, Grace realized with a solid dose of dread, a very solid-looking set of bars. Applause echoed across the basement.

"Oh, well _done_." A man stepped into the ring of light offered by the lamp, hands in the pockets of his dirty denim trousers, red leather jacket creaking as he walked. "Thought it ended there, didn't ya?" He spun, arms wide. "Thought you'd just waltz on down here, easy as you please, and take me by surprise, huh?" He turned, smiling broadly, eyes behind the semi-smoked glasses narrowed. "Maybe thought I'd be cowering in the corner, crying at the thought of my failure? I have to say, your Lordship, you were quicker on the uptake than most, but apparently even genius has its limits." He pulled a cigarette out and lit it. "Who's that pretty little thing there?"

"She followed me; I've never seen her before in my life."

"That so?" The match was shaken out, flicked aside.

"You'd follow the Patrician too, if you saw him running full tilt across the rooftops," Grace said, sticking her chin out.

"Might not, on account of he's got himself caught in my damn fool trap." He blew a smoke ring. "You think you've won; saved your precious city." He shrugged. "All my associates are caught, and here I am. But you haven't won. You can't win. You can't _beat_ Project Pandemonium, you can't _beat_ an idea. You can spin it and hide it and bury it and burn it but it'll live on." He cocked a crossbow and pointed it straight at Grace. "Never met her before in your life, huh?"

"You can't just _shoot_ me!" she jumped back against the brickwork side of the basement, hands in the air. "I'm not armed!"

"Doesn't matter worth a damn to me, miss, with all due respect, because _he_ is." The man looked the Vetinari. "What's she worth to you?"

"She's a shopkeeper." He shrugged. "She's worth more to the city."

"Wrong answer!" The man threw his head back and laughed. "She ain't worth anything to anyone, pal; no one is. Not a person in this world has any money value, and neither does money itself or clothes or anything but the knowledge in our heads and the lifeblood in our souls." He spat out the cigarette and showed his teeth. "Ain't a man out there worth the _shit_ he creates." He wagged a finger at the Patrician. "I'm asking you, what's she worth to _you_?"

Vetinari looked to her, and she looked back, hands still raised, hair fallen loose from its bun. He shrugged. "She's worth me coming here to inspect your trap."

The man looked them both over for a minute, seeming to weigh this. His head nodded back and forth once or twice. "So she's pretty valuable. Good answer. You two been screwing long?" He watched her face before he laughed. "Listen, sweetheart, I don't care worth a damn. How do you find my trap, then, Vetinari?"

The Patrician, raised and eyebrow and made a show of looking around the barred-in stairwell, the hydraulic door system. "Pretty thorough. Brickwork's not built to last but there you go."

"I thought so. It'll last long enough."

"But there is _one_, and really it's probably just tiny, but one mistake, I'm afraid." He leaned up against the bars and the mad smile was back. Grace inched closer to him.

"Hold still there, missy!" the man roared. He turned back to the Patrician. "A mistake, huh? And what would that little slip-up be, hm?"

"Actually, it's quite big. Rather glaringly huge, really." In the dim light of the lamp, his blue eyes practically shone. "Didn't anybody ever tell you how to make a proper trap?"

"Let's say I'm a student of many masters."

"And excellent ones they were, I'm sure. But here's the thing. There is one thing – _one_ thing – that you never put in a trap. Not a trap that you want to work, not a trap that you want to trust. There is one painfully obvious thing that you never _ever_ put in a trap, not if you value your gods-given ability to watch the sun come up every morning. No, Chuck, if you want a trap to succeed, and you want to live to see the success of it, there is one thing that you don't ever even _consider_ putting in a trap."

The man – Chuck – smirked and worked his jaw once, as though he were chewing gum. "And what would that be?"

Vetinari smirked right back at him. "Me." His arm swung to his belt and Grace ducked, avoiding the bolt fired at her head. There was a flash and a crack and a whiff of black powder and smoke and the heavy sound of a body falling to the floor, followed by a scraping noise and the clattering of metal on stone. One of the bars had come loose, rusted away around the threading it relied on to screw in securely to the crumbled brick bracing. Vetinari lightly landed on the floor below and strode over to Chuck.

"You're right." The bleeding man gasped and tried to chuckle, blood bubbling from his lips, streaming down the sides of his face. "I did – I did overlook . . . look that." Another shot echoed through the basement, emanating from a small black thing in the Patrician's hand, dull-colored and deadly. Chuck was still as more blood bubbled from his forehead. The Patrician nudged the man with his shoe once, finding him satisfactorily dead, and looked to Grace.

"You killed him," she managed, dull, still crouched on the steps.

"It had to be done." He paused to kneel and pin a slip of paper to man's leather coat. "He _was_ going to shoot you."

"But . . . but just like that." She blinked. "You were going to kill him all along, weren't you?"

"I am still available for hire at the Guild," he said, by way of explanation. "He might not have had a name, not officially, but he did have a price." He gestured for her to jump down. "Get out of the stairwell." Shaking, she slid to the floor. Her knees felt boneless as she stood there in the shadow of the stairs, arms wrapped around herself, refusing to meet his eyes. Another shot echoed and the hydraulics exploded, flinging the door at the top of the stairs open and tearing a hole in the brick wall.

When Grace dared open her eyes again, he was kneeling on the stairs, hand outstretched, watching her. The evil little device was gone, invisible. She took his hand, reluctant, and he pulled her up. "What did you expect to happen?" he asked softly.

"I don't know." She looked to him. "Do you even feel remorse anymore?"

He watched her for a minute, possibly an eternity. "His plans as we discovered them would have destroyed the city. Thousands of people would have been lost. You would have been killed," he added. "I would have been killed. Vimes and half the Watch would probably have died and the city would have burned." She didn't say anything. "No, I didn't feel remorse. I did what history needed someone to do."

She sighed then and fell into him, wrapping her arms around him. "How can I feel all the ways I feel about you all the time and right now be so terrified of you?"

"I didn't want you to see me like that," he said, stroking her hair. "Never like that."

She twisted a hand into his jacket. "I know." A sob threatened to tear through her chest. "I shouldn't have come." She trembled. "And I'm still glad I did. Why am I glad I did?" She looked up at him, and whatever insane fire had been there was gone.

"You need to rest," he said, stroking her cheek gently before he picked her up and set her on her feet.

"You're a monster." It was out. She'd realized that before she'd even known him, years ago, but lay bare, free from ten years of other memories, it was suddenly more real. She shuddered.

"Sometimes, yes. When I need to be."

She looked over her shoulder to the bleeding body of the man who had killed thousands, and would have killed thousands more, just because he wanted to tear down the world. "And he was too. All the time."

"Grace. Listen to me – you need to rest." He cupped her chin until she couldn't help but look him in the eye. "We'll take you back to Sybil's and you can rest and think all you like." He handed her an envelope, crinkled and folded. Hands still shaking, she pulled out two coach tickets, official documents for her and for Erica, complete with new false names, two thousand dollars cash and a business license for a pet shop in Genua. She looked back to him and he shrugged. "Take your time."

"You knew I'd come."

"Grace." He took a breath and took both her wrists in his hands and leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. "What you saw today is a part of what I have to be in order to be Patrician of this city. You had to see it eventually if we were going to continue on. And if you don't like it, and you want to leave, you have everything you need to never hear from me again." He breathed out. "I've had that envelope ready for a year. It's always been a matter of time."

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the tears running down her cheeks. "I need to think about it," she whispered.

-()-

He never checked. He knew Drumknott would know, possibly knew at this point. It had been two weeks since the attack, and no one had dared say anything. Or perhaps had time to say anything – in the aftermath of Project Pandemonium there was _such_ a lot of cleanup, and trials and executions and investigations and funerals and reimbursements and plans for rebuilding. The Oblong Office had been salvaged, but for the most part the Palace had been gutted. Repairs would be extensive.

Vetinari, apparently unfazed by the event as far as the populace could tell, was sitting at his semi-charred desk in his now considerably more ventilated office, working. There was talk that he was some sort of bizarre hero, outsmarting the mastermind by staying half a step ahead, but on that day there hadn't just been one hero to name, and various people had been called to the forefront of public attention. There was Vimes and the Watch and the citizens who stood up for their city, and the unnamed Assassin who had so creatively killed Chuck Rendud, the mastermind of the whole scheme. There was the army of Dark Clerks and the Sammies across the plains and there was anyone who had taken a minute to take notice of the Paper Street Soap Manufacturer and their endless, nameless, uniform supply of laborers.

And two weeks later, when things seemed to be settling down at last, Drumknott slipped into the office and deposited a slim stack of letters in the tray before he left again. One letter, crumpled and folded and bent, hung out of the pile defiantly. Realizing he'd stopped breathing the minute he'd noticed it, he plucked it from its fellows and, hesitantly, split the familiar seal on the back.

He couldn't help but grin when he overturned the envelope, and a shower of torn-up paper confetti rained onto his desk.

-()-

Yes, it's a gun, kids. I figured he doesn't have bodyguards, he's gotta have something.


	11. Everybody Needs Somebody

And here we are, dear friends, at the final chapter. I might weep. Thank you all for sticking with me on this ill-advised journey – the number of visitors to this story each day has been basically consistent, so I would like to thank those who have made it all the way from the beginning. I told you in chapter 1 that it was long, did I not? I wasn't lying, oui? Oui, my friends, very much oui. Anyway, hope you enjoy the final bit of the only romance I have ever, to date, written, and please, think of the children and **leave a review at the end**. Love you, babies.

-()-

**The Ready Set – Love Like Woe**

-()-

It was a sunny afternoon late in the summer when Lord Vetinari leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, pensive. Drumknott looked over the top of the papers he was organizing and raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever considered doing something really, really stupid, Rufus?"

Drumknott paused. "I ate a whole tub of ice cream, once."

Vetinari sighed. "Unhelpful, but thank you for that information."

Drumknott cleared his throat. "Something, er, something I should be aware of, sir?"

Vetinari seemed to think about this for a while, absently screwing up a piece of paper on his desk and tossing it into the wastepaper basket, across the room. Finally he leaned forward, front legs of the chair thudding back to the floor, and bent over his paperwork. "No," he said. "Not particularly. Show Commander Vimes in whenever he arrives, will you?"

Drumknott narrowed his eyes suspiciously but by the time Vetinari glanced to him he had carefully restored a neutral expression. "Certainly, sir. Will you require anything for the meeting?"

"No, I don't think I will. But if you'd be so good as to help Clerk Brian organize the files for tomorrow's meeting with the City Council I think he'd be appreciative. He does have such a difficult time not getting distracted. And the Commander and I should manage fine," he added, catching Drumknott's expression out of the corner of his eye.

"Of course, sir," Drumknott replied before filing away the papers on his desk and leaving the office. Four minutes and fifty-three seconds later, Commander Vimes strode into the office and slung himself into the chair in front of the Patrician's desk, legs stretched out. He saluted half-heartedly in response to a raised eyebrow from his superior.

"This is why I hate meetings in the afternoon, sir."

"You arranged this one, Commander," Vetinari said mildly, setting the packet he'd been perusing aside. "I understand the officers' meeting at the Yard this morning conflicted with the normal scheduled time." Vimes grunted noncommittally, hands folded on his stomach. "And if I may, what was the outcome of that meeting?"

"Well sir, we discussed the current staffing of the Watch –" and here Vimes paused for just the barest of seconds, enjoying the fact that he could have sworn Vetinari flinched a little – "but ultimately concluded that the current staff of the Watch is sufficient. For now," he added, for threatening effect. "The river gate down by the Tump is a big problem though, we're probably going to have to do something about that."

Vetinari looked up. "Structurally, you mean?"

"Yeah." Vimes shifted a little. "People sneaking in 'round the edges, coming in from off the Plains."

"The city is very much open to immigration, Vimes," Vetinari said cautiously. "I feel I shouldn't have to remind you."

"No, it's not that, sir, can always use a few extra hands willing to work and all." Vimes waved a hand dismissively. "It's just when they come in through the main gates we like to warn 'em about the Shades and the muggers. The ones that don't look scared are usually the ones we look after, for one reason or another."

"Ah. I shall send Mr. Pony down forthwith. And was there anything else?"

"We discussed whether or not birthdays should be acknowledged somehow," Vimes deadpanned. He and the Patrician shared a look, which was all at once both extremely blank and one step away from cheeky. "When someone brought up, however, that in the past year Corporal Nobbs has taken thirteen days off for his birthday, we decided to forego the idea."

"My word. Thirteen?"

"He can't remember his birthday, sir, so he takes a day off here and there, just in case."

"I see." Vetinari carefully turned a paper over and signed the bottom. "And I take it that otherwise things have been quiet?"

Vimes nodded, and silence descended over the office. Not uncomfortably, though, which, at first, years ago, Vimes had worried about. Now, it was simply silence. _This is what happens_, it seemed to say, as it settled. _And eventually something will happen or the meeting will end and that'll be all she wrote. But I'm here until then, just in case._

"And how is the family?" Vetinari asked, apropos of nothing.

"Well enough." Vimes tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "Young Sam's enjoying his time at that blasted hive of murderers, of course." He didn't notice – or, perhaps, because this was Vimes, simply ignored – the fact the Patrician cleared his throat very pointedly. "And Sybil has figured out how to breed Errol, although why she would have wanted to do that, I have no idea. It'll take years to get back to something like him though, if it even works."

"He was a nice dragon," Vetinari said absently.

Vimes let the pause settle for a minute before asking, tentatively, "And, er, how is, uh, Grace?" Despite the fact that he and Vetinari had long since gotten comfortable with being around each other, the added element of Vetinari's semi-secret, long-term girlfriend was still a distinct point of awkwardness.

"Actually, Vimes, I was thinking about that," Vetinari said, laying his pen aside and glancing to the door, or, more accurately, the floor just inside the door, where the hall window was managing to provide a long sliver of light which, Vimes noticed, was devoid of shadows. "Not to be awkward, but . . ." he paused. "When you and Sybil, you know, got, uh . . ." he stopped. Vimes blinked and then, very slowly, leaned forward in his chair.

"_Hold up_," he said. "Is this about what I think it's about?"

Vetinari looked at him askance. "I hesitate to answer that because I'm not sure what you think it's about."

Vimes looked left, then right, despite being absolutely certain the office was empty, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Marriage? Is that what we're talking about here?"

"Maybe."

"You _bastard_," Vimes hissed, pounding his fists on the arms of the chair. "You can't be serious. Really?"

"_Maybe_."

"Oh gods, you _are_ serious." Vimes grinned wickedly. "How scared are you right now?"

Vetinari leaned forward. "Fucking _terrified_," he hissed, running a hand through his hair, totally absent-mindedly. "I mean, this is for _life_."

"So is your job."

"It didn't have to be!" Vetinari caught Vimes's expression. "Okay, fair enough, but when you're twenty-seven and someone hands you a robe and a key to the world you don't question the commitment."

"Sure you didn't."

"That is not the issue at hand, Vimes."

"Oh gods." Vimes shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. "So I take it you haven't actually brought it up yet?"

"With her? No!" Vetinari realized that the last bit had been loud, and lowered his voice again. "We've never even talked about it. I mean, seriously. It's just sort of, you know, been a given that it's one of those things that will never happen."

"So why now?"

"I don't know, it's just . . . The next logical step."

"Stuff logic, Vetinari, you just want to make it official."

"But that's the problem, no one can know." Vimes raised his eyebrows. "They can't! It would just be . . . a bad thing."

"So you want to have a secret wedding?"

"Yes."

"Have you given this any thought at all?" He put his hand over his face. "I can't believe I just asked _you_ that, by the way."

"I mean, I sort of thought about it." Vetinari suddenly looked defensive. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. You know, feasible."

"At what time?" Vetinari suddenly became extremely interested in the paperwork in front of him. "Did you already buy the ring?" The interest in the papers deepened. "You did, didn't you? Well, now you have to do it, you can't go back on it."

"See it's that mentality that is the issue, here."

Vimes chuckled. "You don't have any commitment issues at all, do you?"

"Shut up, everyone has something." He coughed then, which sounded suspiciously like 'Bearhuggers'. Vimes chose to ignore it.

"Well, how long were you planning to wait until you ask her?"

"I was going to do it tonight."

"Wow, don't take your time or anything." He leaned back. "And there is the question of this secret wedding. How are you, of all people, going to pull that off?"

"I've been pulling off a secret relationship for eleven years; it can't possibly be that much harder."

"Well someone's going to have to officiate," Vimes pointed out. "You can't marry yourself. And you need witnesses."

"No you don't." Vetinari looked affronted. "I mean, I do know these things. Witnesses are like . . . well, they're just not necessary."

"Did you just give up on a metaphor?"

"I can't help it, I'm flustered."

"You do need someone to officiate though." Vetinari shot a look that could have been pleading, had the thought of that not been totally ridiculous. "Ridcully would do it. Either one. Just for the novelty of it."

"_No_." He gave Vimes a pointed look.

"You want _me_ to do it? I can't marry you!"

"No, I'm marrying Grace, but I'm flattered, thank you."

"You bloody well know what I meant!" He waved his hands vaguely. "I don't know how to . . . how to do any of that stuff. I mean, I don't even remember a good portion of my _own_ wedding."

"Well I don't remember _any_ of it, if that's any consolation."

"You were too busy bleeding all over the place."

"Mhm." They both nodded at each other and, silently, reached some kind of agreement. "What if she says no."

"She won't say no."

"You don't know that."

"Vetinari."

"Yes, and you're Vimes."

"You're insufferable."

"Tonight, roof, ten thirty."

Vimes rolled his eyes and hoisted himself out of the chair. "I hope this doesn't involve fireworks, that's all I'm saying."

"It probably will. Now stop detaining yourself and get out of my office."

-()-

**Shakira – Waka Waka**

-()-

"Hello, sir," Erica said, when Vetinari wandered in the back door around eight. "Grace is in her apartment." She gave him a sideways look and snapped her chewing gum. "Nice suit. You go to a funeral or something?"

"Kind of like that, yeah," Vetinari answered, distracted, ducking into the apartment. "Stay out here no matter what you hear."

"You guys are disgustingly old to be that loud." Vetinari leaned back around the door and shook a finger at her, scowling, before disappearing around the doorframe and snapping the door closed. Erica looked to the red mutt laying on the floor by her feet. "Is he up to something?" She glanced back to the door. "I feel like he's up to something."

Inside the apartment, Grace was sitting at her desk, paging through a glossy product catalogue when the door closed. She glanced to the clock by her elbow, eyebrows raised and turned around. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Um," said the silver-tongued Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.

_Be suave,_ said his frontal lobe.

_Let's get tachycardic up in here_, said the adrenal glands.

_Focus_, encouraged the front lobe.

_Throw up on the floor_, Cranial Nerve X chirped happily.

Grace cocked her head. "Are you okay? You're acting weird."

"Uh, I'm fine. Um. How are you?"

Grace gave him a long look, chin resting on her hand. "Something you want to talk about?"

Vetinari sank onto the bed and – in a crystal clear moment of self-evaluation, the likes of which he hadn't experienced since the City Council had informed him that he was now, technically, in a manner of speaking, in charge of the city – realized he was utterly unprepared. "You look nice," he blurted out. Grace watched him and then slowly moved from the chair to the bed, sitting next to him and drawing her knees up to her chest, one arm around his shoulders.

"What is the matter with you?"

He turned to her, expression honestly inquisitive. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, you appear to be having either a nervous breakdown or an existential crisis, and I am offering support."

He sighed. "No, I mean you and me. What is the plan here?"

Grace thought while Vetinari slipped an arm around her waist. "Well, I think we, you know, just keep on doing what we're doing, you know? You sneak in when you can, stay when you can, we have wild, loud sex and traumatize Erica and, you know . . . That." She looked at him. "Why?"

"Did you ever want to do anything, you know, other than that?" he risked.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"No!"

"Havelock, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Well, I mean, look at us. I'm fifty-seven and I rule the city and you're, you know . . . close to that and have a business and we're in this sort of, like, nebulous, tenuous, fluctuating state of commitment." He held up his hands. "But committed! Not uncommitted! But still, you know, we're just dating." He looked to her. "Does that seem weird to you?"

Grace's expression was definitely not happy. Close to bemused, perhaps, but the best description would be patiently confused, bordering on annoyed. "If you're going somewhere with this, you'd better get there fast."

Every politician knows that at some time every plan, a person hits a point where it's better to cut losses and run while you can. Havelock Vetinari had hit that wall and, deciding there was nothing left for it, he turned to her so that he was kneeling on the bed, sitting back on his ankles, and started digging around in his pockets.

"Seriously, what the hell is your issue today." Her eyes narrowed. "Is this about that article in the _Times_ last week about you and Rosie Palm? Because I had _nothing_ to d – Oh." Her eyes widened and her jaw went slack. In the dim light of the oil lamp, the ring sparkled.

"I was thinking we could, you know, get married," he said, cautiously. "If you wanted to."

Slowly she reached out, pulling his arm closer, running a finger along the curve of the ring. She was kneeling on the bed now, too. "Oh gods." She stared at the ring for what seemed like an age, turning it left and right, plucking it from his fingers and taking in every inch of it in the lamplight before she looked back to him, eyes still wide, mouth still slightly agape. He was watching her warily.

"Please say something," he said, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

"_Yes_," she breathed, blindly slipping the ring onto her finger. Then, as though putting the little gold band on had jump-started her back to life, she squealed and lunged, pinning him up against the wall. "Yes, absolutely!" She kissed him on the mouth, and while she figured he was probably still too stunned to kiss back, she leaned back, hands on his shoulders, holding him at an arm's length. "That was the worst proposal, I think, in the history of the world but I don't even care!"

"You don't?" he wheezed as she threw her arms around him and squeezed.

"No! You asked, you big doofus, and I'm saying yes! The actual method of the asking doesn't matter worth a damn!"

"Oh, thank gods." And now he was smiling too, crooked, stupid-looking, totally unconscious of the fact. She leaned in and kissed him again, and this time he did kiss back. "I thought I was going to throw up."

"You're so romantic." She slumped up against the wall, next to him, arms still wrapped firmly around his torso. "So _now_ what?"

"So now we get married, right?"

"Secretly?"

"Unless you want to move in with me and live under security constantly and be the subject of wild public speculation, yes."

She brushed a curl of hair out of her face. "Sounds like we're eloping."

"Sort of." He shifted a little while she kissed him, and then held out her arm to admire the ring, a fine band of gold arcing across her finger, woven with an intertwined silver band, standing out against the dark chocolate color of her skin. "So when do you want to do it? Sooner, later?" He watched her expression, her slight nod at 'sooner', and the way her nose crinkled with 'later'. "Next week?"

"Honestly?" He looked down at her, her hand on his chest, wide smile still firmly in place. He nodded and shrugged. "What the hell is there to wait for?" She watched as he smirked. "You knew I was going to say that, didn't you."

"Well," he answered, cocking his head, "I actually _didn't_ because I was totally unsure of whether or not you would say yes. But I figured if you _did_ say yes, you would want to get it over with tonight."

"So where are we going?"

"My place. The roof."

"That's sort of public for a secret wedding, isn't it?"

"Except that we're eight stories above the ground so while people will be able to _see_ that there's a wedding, the actual participants might be a little hazy."

She nodded and kissed him. "Smart. You need witnesses, after all."

"No, actually, you don't."

"I think you do."

"Grace."

"I hate it when you act like you know everything." She kissed him again. "Okay, so maybe we _don't_ need witnesses, but we do need someone to officiate."

"Vimes is meeting us there."

"So Vimes knew?"

"Of course Vimes knew." He shrugged. "I had to tell _someone_; I was completely freaking out. Plus, he's the only person I could possibly think of to officiate."

"What time?"

"Ten thirty."

She jumped up, kissing him beforehand, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. "I was very much not prepared to be in my own wedding tonight, you know. I have less than three hours to get ready." She gave him a severe look. "Some brides have years, you know."

He held up his hands. "You can put it off if you want more time."

"What, so I can look nice for Vimes? Let me change my dress and we can go." Suddenly, the door scraped open and Erica burst in, hands clenched, bouncing up and down.

"I know you totally told me to stay outside by _youguysaregettingmarried_!" she squealed. "Oh my gods!" She high-fived Vetinari before skipping over to Grace and throwing her arms around her. "I can't believe it!" She stood back and hopped up and down a little bit. "I can't believe you said _yes_ after that proposal, either." She turned to the Patrician. "I mean, seriously dude, oh my gods, lamest proposal ever. I wasn't sure if you were breaking up or what the fuck right until the end."

"What have I told you about listening at the door?" Grace frowned.

"I totally stop when you start making sweet, sweet love," Erica said, waving a dismissive hand. "After all, the love nest must be kept sacred." Behind her back, Vetinari put his hands over his face and leaned back against the wall. Erica gestured to Grace. "And you are absolutely not getting married like that."

"I said I was going to change."

"Please let me do your hair at least?" Erica begged. "Please?"

Grace sighed and looked around her clerk to Vetinari, who shrugged. "We've got time." Grace sighed and shrugged, gesturing to herself. Erica squealed again.

"Oh my gods this is so cool! A warm summer's evening, a secret rooftop wedding . . ." She clutched her hands to her breast and sighed. "Ah, romance." Without turning, she waved a hand at Vetinari. "Get out – it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

"We're getting married in an hour and a half and we're walking over there together," he pointed out.

"Nevertheless!" Erica turned around and crossed her arms. "Shoo."

-()-

**Jacques Offenbach – Galop Infernal**

-()-

When Vetinari had left the room and Erica was satisfied that no pre-emptive sneak peeks were able to be taken, she turned to look at her boss-cum-parental figure and waved her arms wildly. "Ay, dioses mios! Mira, mira! Una tragedia! Ay!" Grace gave her a cool look.

"A mess, maybe, _tragedia_, I think not," she said dryly before she turned back to the mirror and pulled her hair of the messy bun. Then she dropped her arms to her sides and sighed. "Okay, okay, _tragedia_." Erica frowned and put her hands on her hips. "But I mean, what do I care? Who's going to see? Havelock? Vimes? Do either of them care?"

"_It is your wedding_," Erica said severely. "If an impromptu and late-night affair, you should at least look nice."

"If I had a nickel every time someone said that to me . . ." Grace was attempting to arrange her hair in a satisfactory fashion.

"You would have one nickel, miss, let's not kid ourselves here. Okay, so, like, I think we should focus on the dress first." She strode across the room and threw the wardrobe open. "Hm, let's see, blue, green, purple, trousers, trousers, trousers, sweater . . ." She threw up her hands. "_Tragedia_ to the max, over here!"

"I'm sorry I don't have a wedding dress on hand for such an occasion! It's not something that really comes up all that often!"

Outside the apartment, slowly spinning around on a chair, Vetinari snorted. "That's what she said," he informed the red mutt, which had meandered over, ever in hope of tummy rubs. The dog wagged its tail and panted with, Vetinari assured himself, raucous doggy laughter.

"Okay, wait, no, here's something in cream!" Erica said triumphantly. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved a soft color." She pulled the dress from the wardrobe.

"Oh, I hate that one, Erica." She dragged a comb through her hair, pulling out an errant wood shaving. "It makes me look like I have man shoulders."

Erica frowned and looked to the dress. "What? Why?"

"The way it's cut. Man-shoulder cut, they ought to call it."

"I dunno. Just put it on."

Grace slumped and frowned in the mirror. "Can't I just wear the red one?"

"Who gets married in red?"

"Someone who gets married in under three hours and only has one dress on hand that doesn't make them look like they're either pregnant or a man and it just so _happens_ to be red. We can't be choosy here, Erica."

"Just put it on, miss, and see."

"I'm wearing the red one."

"Just try this one and then take it off when you suddenly become the forward for the Thieves' Guild football team," Erica sighed, exasperated, rolling her eyes as she brandished the dress. Grace sighed again, let her hair frizz out in every direction, and seized the dress from Erica.

"Get the red one ready."

Five minutes later, when Grace let Erica turn around, Erica breathed out. "Oh, _miss_. Man shoulders my _ass_."

Grace frowned in the mirror, watching the dress, as if it might magically shift shapes or change colors. "Well. It didn't fit like that last time."

Out in the back room, Vetinari was starting to get anxious. They had been in there a while, and he was starting to wonder if maybe Grace had thought about it a little more and was questioning her initial decision. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes. They'd be hard-pressed to get there on time, even if they took the roofs. Just as he was starting to consider all the ramifications of the term 'cold feet,' the door clicked open. He blinked.

"You like it?" Grace asked.

"You frigging better," Erica added, helpfully.

The dress was a buttercream shade of white, just yellow enough that you could get away with it in the winter. The rope braid that looped from the front around the back of her neck tied in simply with the front of the dress and followed the top of the bodice. The dress itself fell to mid-calf and was simply cut, but the silhouette was perfect. "When did you get that?" he asked, stunned.

"A few years ago. There was a banquet at the Merchants' Guild." She shifted uncomfortably. "Does it look nice?"

"Well, yeah." He blinked, grinning. "Yeah."

"So what time is all this going down?" Erica asked, snapping her gum in, had it been anybody else, a totally inappropriate manner that would have utterly ruined the moment. Since it was Erica, though, the assembled company simply shrugged it off.

"Ten thirty," Lord Vetinari said, checking his watch.

"Well, shit," Erica said.

"Yup." Grace looked out the door. "I'm not sure I can take the back way in this dress." She grinned mischievously. "But I guess we have to. I refuse to be late to my own wedding."

"Well we don't _have_ to –" Vetinari started, before Grace and Erica bolted out the door. "Hey, hang on." He slid out the door, hastily threw the lock and stuffed his key back into his pocket, and sprinted down the street, vaulting off the side of a shed and onto a roof, after the other two.

It takes, they found that night, exactly fifteen minutes to get three people from Pellicool Pets to the eighth floor of the Palace at a dead run, across the rooftops. Grace skidded to a halt outside the Oblong Office, laughing as hard as she could while still panting. Vetinari was already there, sprawled on Drumknott's desk. Erica puffed up behind them, hair askew, fanning herself. "What the fuck, you guys. _The whole way_, you had to run?"

"We were going to be late," Erica panted.

"I'm going to die here, I think," Vetinari supplied.

"No you're not. You can die after I marry you."

"Gold digger."

-()-

**DJ Earworm – Blame It On The Pop**

-()-

After they had suitably composed themselves and accepted that they were going to be fifteen minutes late to their own wedding, Vetinari and Grace made their way up the stairs to the roof of the Palace, Erica in tow. "I am going to witness the fuck out of this ceremony," she announced.

"I feel like we should have more witnesses," Grace complained, teasing. "I think it's legally necessary."

"One is plenty," Vetinari said tensely as they started up the last flight.

Down below – eight floors below, at street level, to be precise – a rough-hewn man stopped and glanced up at the roof of the Palace. "Oy, does it look like someone's up on the roof?" he asked his companion, of similar make and model.

"Could be a jumper," his friend volunteered, while others around them stopped to look.

"Is that Commander Vimes?" a woman asked, drawing up behind them, parcel tucked under her arm, watching the figure pace along the edge of the rooftop. "What's 'e doin' up on the roof of the Palace, then?"

"Ol' Vimesy isn't going to jump," the first man said to his friend, scowling. "Someone else might, though."

"'Ere, but are there some other people up there?" asked another person, clotting up behind the original group. "The hells is going on?" The spectators squinted. Three floors up, someone else had taken notice through their window and leaned out. "Oy! What's going on up there?"

"There's a group of people on the Palace," the window-dweller yelled. "Old Stoneface is up there." And now a real crowd was gathering, all staring up at the tiny figures on the roof conversation rippling through the rapidly-forming throng.

"Is someone jumping?"

"I don' see anyone."

"Fancy a sausage inna bun?"

Vetinari cracked the door to the roof a hair's breadth before slamming it shut, quietly but quickly. Grace raised an eyebrow. "There's other people out there," he hissed, by way of explanation.

"Great, we needed some witnesses."

"_Grace_. Gods, Vimes must have told them. I'll kill him slowly, I think."

"What? Are you embarrassed or something?"

"Huh? _No_." He turned around and watched the door with something like disgust. "But it's not exactly as, you know, _secret_."

"You, of all people, should know that there are no secrets in this city. Anyway, it was probably Sybil, and I'll bet she only told people that already know. And I know you don't have the heart to kill Sybil." She smiled and kissed him.

"You guys should totally wait like, twenty minutes for that shit."

"Shut up Erica." He sighed. "Fine." She slipped her hand into his. "Let's do this."

"Leerooyyyyyy Jenkiiiinnnnnssss(1)," Erica laughed, as Vetinari pushed open the door.

Out on the roof, Commander Vimes turned and smirked around the cigar. "Well, look who decided to show up." His face fell a little. "Hello, Erica."

"Word up, Vimesy, we had to fabulousitize her Ladyship, as she will soon be known. Secretly," Erica said, ducking out of the doorway behind Vetinari and Grace and standing next to Drumknott. "Are you crying?"

"I always cry at weddings."

"He does," his wife added, patting him on the shoulder. "Even ours."

"You're an embarrassment to mankind, Drumknott. What's up, Downey?" She fist-bumped the senior Assassin, who returned the gesture, bemused.

"Shall we get this show on the road?" Vimes asked, clearing his throat, tapping the ash off his cigar and brushing some stray embers from his breastplate.

"Is that the Patrician?" someone down on the street asked. "Hang on, that's a lady in a white dress next to him, innit?"

"Oh my gods is that a _wedding_?"

On the front skirt of the crowd, Sacharissa Cripslock scowled, though she was also desperately fighting back a smile. What she wouldn't give to be on that roof right now.

"Alright," Vimes continued as the assembled persons on the roof settled into a state of more-or-less silence. "Don't pass out," he added to Grace and Vetinari. "Either one of you. I won't have any passing out."

"Stand up straight," hissed Grace, elbowing the Patrician in the ribs. Off to one side, Sybil and Adora Belle exchanged amused glances when all assembled men straightened as much as possible.

"We've got them well-trained," Angua observed dryly, lacing her fingers through Carrot's.

"It's the only way you can stand to live with them," muttered Adora, while Moist shot her an offended look. She raised a finger. "You be quiet, we are at a wedding."

Vimes cleared his throat. "Alright, so we've got a couple people to get married, an official to do the marrying and," he glanced over his shoulder to the assembled crowd on the street below, everyone else looking down with him, "plenty of witnesses. So let's get this started. Um. Hello, everyone. This is a wedding, apparently."

Erica raised her hand. "I, Erica Wadsword, give away this lady to this guy, against my better judgment. Go for the gold, miss."

Vimes sighed. "Yes, that was the next bit, thank you Erica."

"Who's 'e marrying then?" one of the spectators on the street asked the person standing next to him.

"Well, it's gotta be Margolotta, dunnit?" Corporal Nobbs volunteered, sucking on a dogend. "Unless 'e's been 'aving some secret relationship."

"Too right, Nobby," Sergeant Colon agreed, a glint in his eyes. "Who else indeed."

On the roof, Vimes sucked on his cigar. "So you two want to get married, well, good luck with that. Sir."

"Sam," Sybil scolded.

"Marriage is a . . . uh, it's nice," Vimes said. "Purity of love and all that. So you've sorted that out amongst yourselves, I assume. And you're both ready to go ahead with this?"

"This is the worst wedding I've ever been to," Lord Rust whispered to Lord Downey, who shrugged before he nudged a black rucksack on the ground with his foot. It clinked suggestively. Rust nodded. "It could get better, though." His wife swatted him on the shoulder and shushed him.

"I'm ready if you are," Grace said, nudging Vetinari again. The Patrician, who had been staring blankly down at the crowd below, twitched back to the present.

"Oh, uh, yes. Obviously."

"Alright, excellent." Vimes grunted. "So did either of you actually prepare vows or are you going to wing this part too?"

Grace nodded and turned to Vetinari. "Havelock Vetinari I . . ." She put one arm around his waist and looped her other arm around his shoulders. Cheers started in the crowd below. "I love you, you strange, complex man. And I always will."

She could feel how tense he was, but he still managed to smile thinly, despite what she rather suspected was rigidly-controlled rising panic. "Grace," he started, biting his lip. "I, um. I have no idea what to say."

Adora elbowed Moist, who leaned down. "Sound familiar? I swear you two could be brothers," she whispered.

Vetinari frowned for the briefest of seconds, but Grace waited, smiling. Then he shrugged and smiled again, nervous. "Thanks for um. For being you? Whatever, I love you."

"Alright, very nice," Vimes coughed. "I have absolutely no faith in you managing to procure rings, so do you two take one another in sickness and health as long as you manage to live and all that sort of thing?" They nodded. "Good; just kiss and seal the deal."

On the streets below, wild cheers rose when Vetinari bent and kissed the bride. Sacharissa scribbled furiously in her notebook, pausing only to dab at her eyes. On the rooftop, applause erupted from the small crowd gathered there, and Drumknott started sobbing hysterically. His wife slung her arm around his shoulders and held him while she whooped.

"That was the lamest wedding ceremony ever," Grace said to Vetinari, resting her forehead against his.

"Do you care?"

"Nope," she said, before kissing him again.

"Me neither." He kissed her and then pulled back. "So what say you we ditch Erica and go downstairs?"

"And miss the party?" Grace turned to the crowd, where Lord Downey had hardly waited for the sort-of ceremony to end before breaking out the liquor. On the streets below, similar intentions were audible. After all, Ankh-Morpork is always looking for a party, and the Patrician getting married seemed as good a reason as any. "Like hells; if we can't take a honeymoon we might as well have some fun on your roof."

(1) Based on my calculations, there was a 32.33% - repeating, of course – chance of something like that coming up in this fic.

-()-

**Hootie & the Blowfish – Hold My Hand**

-()-

It was much, much later that night, or possibly very early the next morning, before they actually managed to ditch Erica, dropping the girl off to sleep in one of the rooms in the clerk's wing. They were in the Oblong Office, Grace in one of the chairs at the conference table, Vetinari sitting in his usual chair, next to her. She was watching him do some paperwork, combing her hair out with her fingers, smiling tiredly. "You're not going to sleep at all?"

"Can't – I'm going to have to publicly deny everything as soon as de Worde gets an appointment, after all."

"You should change clothes, then."

"I'll take care of it." He turned a piece of paper over – right-handed, since Grace had a firm hold on his left – and told her, without looking up, "I'm going to retire in five years."

She laughed and rubbed her eyes. "I must be tired; my mind's playing tricks on me."

"I'm being serious. I was going to tell you when I actually decided on it, but the timing wasn't right."

The smile dropped off her face and she froze. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Yup." He turned a page. "What do you think about Genua?" He waited for a while, in the silence of the Office, before the soft whisper of the fabric of her dress sounded, and she wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder, hot tears prickling the corners of her eyes.

"I think it sounds perfect."

_Fin_


End file.
